Buds Bursting Into Bloom
by Chatastic
Summary: What if the Phantom did not die after Christine left him? And what if he was able to love again? And what if that love arrived in Paris only weeks after the one and only performance of Don Juan Triumphant? And what if she was way cooler than Christine?
1. In which I arrive in Paris

A/N This is dedicated to LSS, who inspired my voice and cleaned up my grammar. I write for YOU!

1870, February 13.

Dearest Angelina,

Well, I have indeed made it to Paris! The city of lights! The land of love! The place of…prostitutes, no no, no, that's not what I meant. The car ride was hard indeed, what with us being jostled about along the winding street on the boulevard of broken dreams. But here I am, at the Opera Populaire-Garnier! I made it, finally, no thanks to our awful big sister Christine, whom I suspect did not give me the correct directions. I do believe I would have wound up in Austria, if it hadn't had been for an incredibly nice gypsy man named Javert. Why, my driver Henri needed to only open his mouth, and that Javert was quick to respond. And pet Henri's hair. What a helpful, if portly and a little smelly, gentleman!

Oh, my darling twin, how fondly I remember those days on the Brittany coast (or was it the Jessica coast, I forget). When Papa would play the accordion, and Christine would try to sing, and we would laugh and point, and Papa would cry because Christine was so bad. And those stories…of Little Lotte and the Angel of Music, and how confused we got, because the Angel was like her father- but not her father- with the voice of angel, but the hands of a man…I remember feeling a little funny at the way Papa's eyes would sparkle when he got to that part.

But no, my special sister, I am here, and as I ascended the gleaming staircase (everything is so clean and new, nothing like what that wretched Christine described, bitter hag!), I was met by M. Andre and M. Firmin, who promptly shook my hand, kissed my cheek, and offered me a place in the chorus. My talent radiates off me! My entire being must sing a seraphic chorus!

I was ushered off into the general dormitory, and was met by a horde of less than friendly girls. I suppose I will have to get used to being lonely here, even though I was very, very popular back home (as you well know, twin of my flesh!) They turned a cold shoulder to me, and huffed a bit, but I don't know why. I was only trying to practice my scales a hundred times, as Papa always demanded! In as many keys as possible at once! I wonder, perhaps they just don't sing very well, and are intimidated by me. I hope that's not the case, as that will make it harder to rise to the level of prima donna and be universally loved!

So, in my despair over being so unceremoniously shunned, I ventured out into the theater. I wandered around, noticing that roses without thorns but with really expensive black silk ribbons kept falling from the sky. Or the catwalk, I'm not sure. I chose not to look up lest I see a ghost, or a man, or a ghost-man of love. You know how superstitious I am! And how easily frightened, but strangely brave when necessary. And how incredibly virginal and pure I am. Purer than driven snow!

Oh, how strange, my sister, that I forgot to mention earlier: I did notice that M. Firmin seemed to sidle up rather close to my person earlier. I do believe he licked my ear, but I cannot be certain, as I was rather dumb with wonder over the enormous statues of well-endowed gilded women.

In any case, I followed the trail of roses to a strange door, with a strange key, which I promptly turned, and the door opened, and I entered, and I knew it was to be my dressing room. It smelled of lavender and cinnamon, just like me! Well, my hair smells like lavender, but my neck tastes like cinnamon. I think my thighs are creamy, but I cannot be sure; as I am so pure, I've never seen myself naked!

I took a seat at the vanity, and began to brush my hair, which as you know is very long and perfectly curly and very, very blond, like golden wheat or those gilded women in the interior of the theater. I grew sleepy so quickly, and promptly curled up on the chaise lounge, pulling a blanket about my shoulders.

But sister, when I awoke this morning, I had a down comforter covering me, a tray with a full breakfast buffet, a copy of James Joyce's _Ulysses_, three candles that smelled of patchouli, a short but cleverly rendered sonnet, a sleeve of arias and various compositions which must be intended for me to memorize today, and a single perfect red rose! But who could have done this?

I hope it's not M. Firmin.

Yours,

Catherine


	2. In which I sing

**A/N: LSS is the greatest beta in the world. End of story. Review, or no more chapters for you fools! Mwhahahahaha…**

1870, February 14.

Dearest Angelina,

As I stated in my previous letter, I awoke to find a sumptuous spread of food and literature before me. Surely I must have a anonymous suitor, a gallant gentleman who finds me in perfect shape and endowed with a cunning intellect. I thumbed through _Ulysses_ absentmindedly (it really is quite a funny read!) as I nibbled on a croissant, consumed three strawberries, rolled four grapes in my mouth at once just to see if I could, drank three cups of tea and lit a patchouli candle. You know, dear sister, that I eat so very little…

When I turned my attention to the arias left on the table, I was struck by one singular, salient fact: They must have been written just for me! Sister, each one of these scores fits perfectly within my range, offering me numerous chances to demonstrate my technical prowess, emotional complexity, and ample bosom. Apparently, one of the arias is for a character named "Satine," and she is…well, she is a dark lady engaged in business I dare not describe. And yet, I am strangely drawn to darkness, to that which the night covers, and the scent of patchouli.

When at last I had memorized two of the arias and could capably sight read three more, I gathered the sleeve of music and the copy of Joyce and stopped before the large mirror on the wall. My reflection stared back at me. With longing. My dress looked pressed, my hair still neatly tied back with not one strand out of place, my cheeks rosy, my neck long, my sky-blue eyes (or perhaps gray, like an otter's downy fur?) bright and wide, my dimples deep; I felt and smelled like a breath of fresh air.

And so I decided to both attend chorus rehearsal _and _divine the true form of my mysterious admirer. I followed a horde of men and women upstairs to the rehearsal studios, where a cadre of official-looking people sat, waiting for practice to begin.

A short wiry man stepped up to speak. "Excuse me, excuse me…" he said, but it was difficult for him to command attention. A part of me wanted to help him, but I dared not. I am new, and rather frail and meek as you know, except when I must be strong, and then I am like a panther in the night.

"I beg your pardon!" He stamped his foot and harrumphed. The elegant woman at his side raised her eyebrows and brought her cane down in three hard raps. A great hush fell over the congregation, and all attention fell upon me.

"Mademoiselle, I am M. Reyer. I understand that you are our newest chorus girl," he said with a sneer, "but _I _have not heard you sing. Would you please step forward and give us a sampling of your abilities?"

Oh sister, my heart almost seized! What if I were to fail? Then the Angel-Man of Music and Fondling would never come! I gathered my wits about me and stepped forward. I had no idea what to sing- but then, I remembered one of the arias I'd memorized. I tried to avoid looking directly at M. Firmin, who licked his lips slowly.

"Pie Jesu, pie Jesu, pie Jesu, pie Jesu

Qui tollis peccata mundi

Dona eis requiem, dona eis requiem"

No one moved! It was as if a layer of ice had descended over the crowd, stilling them to listen with intense design.

"Pie Jesu, pie Jesu, pie Jesu, pie Jesu

Qui tollis peccata mundi

Dona eis requiem, dona eis requiem"

M. Reyer's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates! M. Firmin's right hand began to twitch. I dared not look behind me, and simply kept going, summoning a wellspring of courage I never knew I possessed.

"Agnus Dei, Agnus Dei, Agnus Dei, Agnus Dei"

Dear sister, what happened next, I cannot explain! M. Reyer's eyes rolled back, and he pressed a sheet of music into his lap and moved it around. M. Firmin began rubbing his lower body onto the piano, and everyone began to moan and cry out vile words! Even the grand lady with the cane was pinching the rear of a scantily clad dancer, muttering something about "casting couch" and "leading roles."

Then, from the vent above, I heard a gasp and muffled voice say something like "etter…than…istine."

A little blond dancer screamed, "It's Monsieur Le Fantome!" resumed kissing M. Andre with furious passion.

Suddenly, M. Reyer descended upon me, chafing my hand and asking me whether or not I would like private lessons. He took my wrist to his mouth and began to lave on the vein.

I believe I heard a growl from the vent above.

Yours,

Catherine


	3. In which I encounter a stranger

**A/N: First, I'm sending good thoughts out to a certain PPNer's daughter- get well soon! Second, thanks to everyone who squees and reviews and just generally offers support and encouragement. Ya'll rock. Any grammatical errors are my own- this version is self-betaed, and there are just some things that shouldn't be done alone.**

1870, February 15.

Dearest Angelina,

I write to you on the ending of a most auspicious night! I can barely contain my excitement, my joy, my fear, my precocious sense of worth and most certainly, the strange prickly feeling in the nether part of my unseen self.

As you know, M. Reyer was most pleased with my audition, and proceeded to offer me room and board at his domicile, which I politely yet emphatically refused. 'Tis far better that I sleep on the tiny chaise lounge in my dressing room, the one with the enormous mirror and strange odor of longing, than to accept the invitation of one's chorus master to lodge in his quarters. I shudder at the impropriety!

I am pleased to report, precious sharer of our mother's womb, that I have indeed made a friend! A young chorus girl named Mademoiselle Lissy de Mithrileux charmingly congratulated me on my brave performance, as though I was unaware of my brilliance. She did, however, use the phrases "violent vibrato" and "soul-splitting over-acting," though I believe she was merely teasing me as Father used to do. I believe I shall keep Mme. Lissy for a future confidant.

After the audition, I retired to my room to freshen up, though I hardly needed to do so. I chose to caress my arms with fresh lavender and rub a little cake flour on my legs, just as a precaution. Who knows when some strange, leather-gloved caped figure of mystery and drama might happen upon my path and dare to sniff my many-fragranced self?

I, myself, cannot imagine such an event.

Though the hour was late and I was without accompaniment, I chose to don my royal blue cloak, snatch up my copy of _Ulysses_ and the latest edition of _Paris People_ with that sniveling Compte de Changy on the cover (I dare say a greater fool was never born- Christine is a pestilence on the male sex and he married it!), I crept through the theater towards the exit on the Rue Scribe.

The darkened street was populated with only a few huddled shadows, muttering to themselves much the way M. Reyer and M. Firmin were just hours earlier. I clutched my cloak around me, hoping that I might find a small and warm café to enjoy a spot of tea and sing to bring the downtrodden joy.

No sooner had I closed my eyes to reminisce on my triumphant evening than two filthy vagrants surrounded me, breathing heavily and faintly grunting. I tried to run, dear sister, but they had me cornered! I knew not where to go! I darted to and fro, skittered back and forth, lunged stage left and stage right, performed one perfect _pas de chat_ and tried to _grand battement_ in the face of one of my attackers. Alas- my ballet skills are enveloped with too much grace to truly be threatening!

And so, my sister, I thought I would perish that very night! My attackers muttered frightening things to me, and just as they closed in, I saw a rope go over one mangy neck!

I bravely closed my eyes and sat on the ground.

In a matter of seconds, I heard the second body fall, and a pair of strong hands gripped my arms.

"Come," was his only whispered command. As he shuttled me forward, I caught only the faint glimpse of something white.

A perfect half mask, incredulously suspended over the right side of his face. I could make out no other features in the darkened Rue Scribe, and yet I allowed him to handle me in this fashion towards a gate on the side of the opera house. When we approached it, he pushed me forward and stepped behind me.

"Put your hands on the iron bars."

Without thinking I did so, bending forward slightly. His breathing grew labored.

"Never mind. Stand up please!"

Suddenly I felt a piece of silk over my eyes. Then another, heavier fabric. Next a bit of netting and finally a bag.

"Turn around."

I turned, stumbling a little.

"Can you see?"

"No," I said softly, using my melodic voice to soothe him.

"How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Three?"

Silence met my guess.

"How many now?"

"Monsieur, I cannot see! I merely meant to impress you with my intelligence, that I could divine your thoughts even under duress!"

"I see. Then let us be off."

When at last we arrived to what must have been the fifty-seventh cellar beneath the Opera Populaire-Garnier, the masked man methodically removed my blinding devices.

Oh, sister, you could not believe the site I beheld! At first, I thought the room was on fire, but it was really millions of candles! I saw a tiny detailed replica of the opera stage, and sheets of music everywhere! My captor-rescuer-masked-man-of-mystery-and-sensuality was obviously quite the painter, as I saw numerous sketches of a woman who looked just like me everywhere! And strangely, a small dark-haired doll in a white dress suspended over a flame via a noose.

"Mademoiselle, you should know better than to traipse the streets of Paris at night unescorted. You could have been ravished."

"Ravished!" I shrieked.

"Ravished," he nodded.

"Are you going to ravish me?" I trembled.

"I'm not sure," he admitted.

"Monsieur, what does ravish mean?"

"I have no idea."

We both looked down, studying the stone floor for clues as to this concept of "ravishment."

"Monsieur, who are you?"

He looked up suddenly, his blue-green-gray-brooding eyes darkening, glittering, sparkling and almost dancing, which is actually strangely funny to see…

"I am a ghost, a man, a musician, a poet, an architect, a composer, a voice teacher, a part-time magician for children's parties, a passable chef, an adequate sommelier, a ventriloquist, a potions-maker-"

"Yes, yes, your resume is impressive. But what is your _name?_"

He stiffened. "My name is-"

I inadvertently sneezed.

"My name is Er-"

I coughed delicately.

"Do you have allergies?"

I nodded.

"Fine then. My name is…"

I held my breath and pinched my nose.

"Cecil!"

I stood aghast, then promptly and appropriately fainted. I write this letter to you by the light of solitary candle in a small stone alcove as I lie in on scarlet red sheets in a swan bed.

Should I be concerned that M. Cecil sleeps on satin sheets in a bed shaped like a swan? Surely the Compte de Chagny sleeps in a pink polka-dotted footed jumper and sucks his thumb like a baby…

Yours,

Catherine


	4. In which I learn

****

A/N: I am sorry I'm so slow on updating this… I hope that you will forgive me and enjoy this update.

This chapter is utterly dedicated to Mithril, who is the best reviewer I've ever seen. She's utterly supportive, and just plain awesome. Any mistakes here are all my fault… self-betaing is bad idea I know, but I didn't want to wait another moment!

1870, February 16.

Dearest Angelina,

What a shocking, arousing and impossibly coincidental day I have had! And my sister, I have met the most intriguing man alive! Almost as intriguing as Father…

When I awoke this morning, I was necessarily confused and disoriented. Why, I was still in the swan bed, though I was curiously divested of my stocking and my corset, though my dress was still firmly laced in the back. Surely, my modesty had been compromised, yet honored, yet utterly seductively compromised without my express consent, though I would have willingly (if charmingly hesitantly) given!

A small monkey with clapping cymbals lulled me from my dreamless sleep. Cecil must use the monkey as an alarm clock; I tried not to consider this an act of bizarre immaturity for a grown man and instead focused on the quaint nature of the situation.

And yet, the monkey was rather ugly, and dressed in Persian garb, though nothing would have signaled any reason for the inclusion of Persia or even France until now, as we do not speak French, you know.

Alas, I propped myself up on my elbows and searched for the Monkey's snooze button. I finally put my finger in between the cymbals and let the toy beat on me to avoid the wretched clanging.

Resigning myself to my newly awakened state, I crept out of the bed and went in search of my seductive rescuer-captor-man-ghost-possible lover to ascertain the particulars of my situation.

When I rounded the corner, I saw him seated at a large organ, and I faintly remembered what Father used to say about men who felt compelled to buy large organs.

Compensation.

Undaunted, I strode over to him, allowing my natural scents of lavender and cinnamon to wash over him and announce my presence.

He turned suddenly with a look of fear, desire, confusion, contemplation and a little spot of gas.

I opened my mouth to speak, but he raised one elegant gloved hand. Standing, he turned to face me.

"Night time sharpens, heightens each sensation," he said, slowly and deliberately as if wanting to sing the words but not being allowed.

"I thought it was morning."

He gaped, his eyes wide, and he shook his head in consternation.

"Darkness stirs and wakes imagination," he said slowly and emphatically.

"But one cannot see in the dark! It is… dark! What kind of imagination can happen when you can't see your own hand before you face?"

He began to growl. "I shall skip forward then. Touch me, trust me-"

"Good sir! We barely know each other!"

He sat down, defeated. "Mademoiselle, these are the only lines I have. They are meant to enthrall and seduce you." He narrowed his eyes. "I took the liberty of consulting the Oxford English Dictionary over our confusion on 'ravishment.' I am clear on the matter at hand."

"Hand!" I shrieked.

"Foot?" He countered.

"You are no gentleman, sir! I must, I must… I must be off! You must take me back to my dressing room in the Opera House, careful to not let me fall, but letting me fall at least once so that you may touch me with probable cause and therefore cause us both to blush and realize how much we might enjoy touching each other in the very near future!"

Cecil frowned, and gathered up his cape. I thought he might mean to strike me, or threaten to strike me, so that I might fall to the floor attractively and lie before him vulnerable and heaving. Yet, darling Angelina, he just stared at me!

"Very well. Now hold still. This blindfold contraption will take about five minutes."

Once safely in my dressing room, the masked man released me and stepped away. "Until we meet again, mademoiselle."

"Monsieur… aren't you going to take the blindfolds off?"

His hesitation made my skin grow cold, then hot, then clammy, then strangely prickly and exciting.

"Mademoiselle, I mimed blindfolding you. You need only open your eyes."

Angelina! What a remarkable magician he is! He had me completely in this thrall- he surely is an angel, or a devil or perhaps just a man with a strange sense of humor.

When I turned around, he had vanished, although the large mirror behind me rattled a bit and I heard him utter, "oh bloody hell move rat!" as his footsteps faded away.

I rushed out into the hallway, searching for a friendly face. Without you, my precious womb-mate, I am lost in the cold, forbidding yet curiously decadent city! I made my way down the hall, past a few dancers who scowled at me and one or two stagehands that gestured and chuckled. Finding my way to the rehearsal studios, I was comforted immediately to see Lissy de Mithrileux reading one of the daily publications, her brow furrowed.

"Oh Lissy, Lissy, my dear friend-"

Her eyes lifted from the page and she regarded me with what I can only imagine to be admiration.

"Can I help you?"

"Oh, dear Lissy, I must tell you of my strange encounter!"

She looked back down at the newsprint. "Did you know that 1870 is actually not a bombast year of decadence and carefree glory in Paris? Not that you would know it to traipse these halls…"

"Lissy, I met the strangest most wonderfully eccentric man."

Without lifting her eyes, she muttered, "He wore a half mask of white and lives bellow the Opera House in a rather opulent lair that seems to have been decorated by a team of lonely women after an absinthe binge."

Angelina, I was shocked. She knew of my Cecil!

Lissy looked up, sighed and folded the paper. "Catherine," she began, "He's the Phantom of the Opera. The Opera Ghost. What contemporary people would term an extortionist and a terrorist, but who young women like to regard as reclusive and incredibly attractive genius who could play with yarn and it would cause them to swoon."

She reached out for my hand, and I allowed her to pat it. She seemed amused.

"Did he mention a scorpion?"

I shook my head.

"Did you notice any correspondence from a fellow named Nadir Khan? Did he utter the word, 'daroga'?"

"No Lissy. He just spoke-sang to me of… things! And gave me a monkey wake-up call!"

She heaved a sigh and rolled her eyes, surely out of jealousy that Cecil would pay me so much attention! He must have rejected her!

Perhaps Cecil has taste after all!

Always,

Catherine


	5. In which I meet a old friend

**A/N This chap is all for Adison, who writes the delicious _Sanctification_. Ad, this Buds for you!**

**And a special thank you to Elektra for beta service on the fly! You are spank-tacular!**

1870, February 17.

Dearest Angelina,

We will begin rehearsal for the new production shortly; I am certain that "Beauty and the Beast" is indeed a classic in the opera annals! Roles have not been officially cast, but I feel certain that M. Reyer will see fit to cast me as "Belle." At least, he told me he would enjoy casting me about on a couch, so I think the tide shall turn in my favor!

I have not seen or heard from Cecil in days. I find myself oddly saddened by this, and make a point to stand in front of the large mirror for at least an hour a day touching my body and reapplying my lipstick.

I cannot believe that he would have lost interest in me so quickly! After all, he still has my corset and stockings from the night I spent in the swan bed. Surely he must be dry-cleaning them for the next time he saves me, or kidnaps me, or offers to coach me into opera stardom and beyond.

As I made my way to the stage, I kept my eyes cast down demurely, hoping that everyone could tell how sweet, kind, special and beautiful I am. I clasped my hands in front of me, then behind me, then wrung out my fingers, opted to twist them in my skirts, finally interlacing my perfect ivory slivers of moonlight and expending a loud "crack" of my knuckles. Though I had no reason to be, I felt a twinge of nervous excitement, as if a man might want to kiss me, or grab me and force me to wear a wedding dress!

I saw Lissy and offered a slight wave and a knowing wink. She paled, pointed to her self, and then looked around as if she were concerned others might see our clandestine exchange. Ah, she is a good confidant, so caring of my extremely sensual secrets!

M. Andre and M. Firmin stood to the side of the stage as M. Reyer tapped his conductor's baton on the music stand. "Ladies and gentleman, if you please. The show must be cast today, as we will be mounting it immediately (Meg Giry snickered at this, why I cannot say). You will be learning your parts within the hour. The choreography will be done by tomorrow. Set and costume designs are already complete, thus giving us ample time for the typical brand of 'accidents,' 'mischief,' 'blatant tomfoolery,' and 'murder' that seems to befall every God-blessed production the Opera Populaire-Garnier endeavors to produce."

"It's a wonder we all still have gainful employment," muttered Madame Giry.

M. Reyer nodded gravely. "On the note of positivism, let's have the gentlemen step forward to sing the part of Gaston." Several able-bodied men lined up, though some were more able-er than others.

"Harold Potteriere, monsieur," said one, and commenced to sing horrifically.

"Remy le Beau," said the next, who proceeded to make my eyes water.

The last man stepped forward, and cleared his throat. "Fox Mulder."

M. Reyer grimaced. "Please don't bother."

Oh, Angelina, everyone was aghast, distraught, fairly nauseated and rather inebriated. I felt all alone, and never before had I so longed for Father, or the Angel-Man of Music and Fondling to come and touch me all over and make me feel… pretty.

But oh! A melodic voice traveled from the back of the theater, saying, "Might I have a go at it, good monsieur?"

A man strode downstage, and everyone stepped away to give his glorious aura room to shine and blind. He wore a fine suit, with a crisp cravat knotted at his throat. A jeweled sword hung from his very attractive hips. His golden hair was delicately knotted at the nape of his neck with a shiny plaid satin bow.

He reached into his coat pocket, removed a card, and gestured to little Meg. She ran to him, curtsied daintily and took the card to M. Reyer.

"Patrick Raymond de Wilsoneau, Viscom..."

M. Reyer cleared his throat.

"Vis…compte of the whole of Jessica?"

I swayed for a moment, found my presence of mind, lifted up on my toes, clasped my hands at my breasts though not actually _touching _them, and sprinted clear across the stage to Lissy.

"It's Patrick!"

Lissy raised an eyebrow. "You know him?"

"Oh yes! You could say we were childhood sweethearts. Or you could say he liked to watch through the window while Angelina and I bathed each other by moonlight." I felt my heart pounding in my chest at the memory of Father chasing after Patrick with a shotgun and a knife, threatening to offer him a career as a Castrati.

"Catherine," Lissy began softly, "did M. Reyer say that he was a Viscompte?"

"Oh yes. Patrick is of the aristocracy!"

"But… how can I put this simply for your tender little ken… there's no such thing!"

I smiled sadly at her. "Oh, Lissy, I know how strange this must all seem! Him, walking in just at the very moment we were in need of a singer, and looking as good as he does, and us knowing each other, and there being a potential for a spirited love triangle that must surely end tragically at first, only to be re-written innumerable times so that the losing party wins over and over again either with his original object of lust or with a new girl who is even more perfect for him than the first…."

Angelina, I do believe Lissy can fall asleep standing up with her eyes open.

What an amazing woman she is!

M. Reyer still had his mouth open. Patrick offered a smile, and the glare from his perfect white teeth momentarily blinded the crowd, causing poor dear M. Andre to stumble backwards into the orchestra pit.

"Je suis prêt à chanter pour vous monsieur. Je vous assure que j'ai une voix de tueur et je suis vers le bas avec les dames..." said Patrick (1).

Madame Giry smiled broadly. I turned to Lissy, shaking my head. "What did he say?"

"I think he spoke French. I'm not exactly sure why."

Several chorus girls were crying, and trying to lift their breasts up to amplify their cleavage.

"Don't we all speak French?" I asked Lissy in a low voice. "Should I understand this?"

"My dear, I doubt you could understand anything, really. Only Madame seems to be understanding him, and I'm not wholly convinced that's correct French he's speaking at all."

Madame walked over to Patrick slowly, and looked down her nose at him.

"Je parle totalement anglais. Mais si je maintiens les Français, je regarde beaucoup plus frais et ne veux aucun doute vais au lit avec environ quatre des filles de choeur avant la nuit est à travers ! Le plus, l'auteur semble maintenant bien-recherché incroyable et très intellectuel, le lancement en bas du Français pooched outre des poissons de Babel" (2).

M. Reyer finally found his voice. "Do you know the role of Gaston?"

Patrick furrowed his brow. "La version de Disney ?" (3)

M. Reyer smiled and hollered, "OUI!" (4)

Patrick nodded.

Suddenly, a note fluttered down from the catwalk. Everyone screamed, or whimpered, or made little peeping noises, except for little Meg Giry, who slumped her shoulders and muttered, "Oh no… it's the Phantom. Oooh. Notes. Scary stuff there."

Madame Giry popped her smartly on the rear and brought the note to M. Andre, who was just now climbing out of the pit. He began to read it aloud:

"'Dear Andre,

My salary is late as usual. I shall be attaching a 7 percent interest markup to final total. Late again, and I shall raise rates a quarter every fiscal year. Do not cross me!

And the next time I leave food wrapped up with the letters 'O.G.' written plainly on the top, I advise you NOT to eat it. I was saving that for later.

I see auditions are underway. Kindly ask the newest gentleman to stand still on the great red X painted in the middle of the stage.

Sincerely,

O.G.

PTO'"

M. Andre turned the card over and continued to read: "'Yes, well, that's it. I really had nothing else. Just wanted to make you look.'"

Lissy touched my shoulder. "Quite the comedian, your fellow is."

I blushed, flushed, became teary and utterly moist… on my palms, that is.

Patrick nodded and stepped into the center of the X. Lissy pulled me back. "Best to clear the stage for this one."

Launching into Gaston's theme song, Patrick howled most remarkably! As he shimmied to the right, a prop spear hurtled down towards him. The crowd gasped, yet Patrick was undaunted. As he performed a dainty grapevine step to the left, sustaining a fantastic high note, a sandbag hit the ground and exploded. This time, the crowd applauded.

Nearing the end of Patrick's song, I began to worry. Could it be Cecil, aiming projectiles at my dear friend? Certainly not!

And yet, as Patrick foolishly moved back to the bull's eye, I found myself longing to rush out to him and save his life from falling overhead objects.

"Patrick!" I sung out to him.

He looked at me as he prepared to hit the final note.

A scream from above startled me, and I looked up to see Cecil plummeting to the stage floor!

As I screamed, Patrick ran and slid on his knees, ending his note on the floor before me.

The X opened into a trapdoor, through which Cecil sailed like an angel, or a bat, or more accurately a bird that had been shot in mid-air.

A resounding "oooomfffph!" echoed up, and as the trapdoor close, I thought I heard him say, "bloody hell, stay still man!"

I looked down, trembling, at the magnificent form of man at my feet.

"Oh, Patrick!"

He smiled so tenderly.

"Who the hell are you?"

Yours in great frustration,

Catherine.

(1) I am ready to sing for you sir. I assure you I have a killer voice and I am down with the ladies.

(2) I totally speak English. But if I keep up the French, I look much cooler and will no doubt go to bed with about four of the chorus girls before the night is through! Plus, the author now seems incredible well-researched and very highbrow, throwing down French pooched off Babel Fish.

(3) The Disney version?

(4) YES!


	6. In which I learn a great secret

**A/N Many, many thanks to Elektra for her beta services! Special gratitude to Mandy the O for her plot point inspiration—a typo is never a mistake, it is an act of genius! And thank you very much to all who have read and reviewed. Lawyer sans shoes, I wouldn't have gotten the idea for this phic without you. I've had so much fun with it. Thank you very much.**

1870, February 18.

Darling Angelina,

After the most disappointing audition of my life, I retreated to my dressing room. I lit the last of the patchouli candles and decided to change out of my dress. As I was most definitely alone, I shunned the changing screen and simply slipped out of my gown down to my corset and garters. Reclining on my chaise, I felt a bit of a breeze, but was overall content.

Content until I heard, felt, sensed, perceived, intuited, and surmised a _presence_ in the room. Propriety would have dictated my covering up, but surely no one could really be there, so I casually propped my head on my hand and allowed my body to assume a naturally curvaceous pose.

"Insolent boy…" sang-spoke a voice from the shadows.

I sat up immediately and made a flimsy effort to cover my heaving bosom.

"Who might that be?" I whispered breathlessly.

"This slave of fashion…" continued the melodic voice.

"Me? Why, I only wear simple yet elegant couture befitting my impoverished yet strikingly beautiful self!"

"Er… no…not you," the voice muttered. "Ahem. Basking in your…well, that's not exactly what happened, now is it?"

I stood, chin held high, shoulders back, stomach sucked in, eyes wide, hair wildly curly, thighs slightly apart, one foot pointed.

"Who are you? Are you a… spirit?"

I heard the distinct sound of a leather palm slapping the skin of a face and a groan. The voice cleared itself again and continued. "Come to me, my Angel…"

The voice paused. "You know, that really did not work out for the best before. Let's try something new, shall we?"

I nodded, and gestured for the voice to continue.

"Come to me, my Cherub of Crooning!"

I stood aghast. "You want me to…come?"

Angelina, the voice snickered at me! I must say I was most puzzled by this entire turn of events.

"Look at your face in the mirror-"

I did indeed step closer to the mirror, and noticed that my eyebrows were absolutely perfect for arching with both naiveté and coyness.

"I am there inside!"

"You are?"

"It's a metaphor, my dear. A figure of speech?"

I was stunned. The mirror was talking to me!

"Where a word or phrase that ordinarily designates one thing is used to designate another, thus making an implicit comparison?" The voice sighed. "I shall procure for you the finest dictionary available in all of Europe, my darling if slightly dimwitted girl!"

I stepped closer to the mirror, slowly beginning to recognize the voice. "M. Firmin? Is that you in there? Did you see me change clothes?"

"Bloody hell no! It's me, Catherine. Hold on."

I heard a grunt and pop. The mirror shook and rattled. Then, a loud sigh. Then another shake of the mirror, and a spot of vulgarity that I shall most definitely not repeat here.

"Alright, put your hands on the mirror."

I obeyed without question.

"When I say slide, I want you to slide the mirror to your right. Do you know right from left?"

I looked down at my hands, made an "L" with my left hand, and nodded the affirmative.

"Thank God for small favors. Ready?" I heard a latch depress. "Slide it!"

I did so, and found- to my utter shock- Cecil standing before me, dapper in a black suit, white lawn shirt, green vest, black cravat with a tiny gold pin in the shape of smiley face, and a wide brimmed fedora. Most curiously, he was sporting a cane, upon which he leaned heavily.

"Cecil? Are you alright?"

He dismissed my anxiety with a wave. "Nothing at all. Just a small mishap. A sprained ankle really. Probably just a flesh wound."

I hurried to kneel before him, and he stiffened considerably, and rather obviously in a particular section of his corporeal self.

"Might I suggest a robe, or a drop cloth, or something with which to cover your delicate person?"

I leapt to my feet, paled yet flushed, embarrassed yet exhilarated, and eternally confused over his actions.

"Don't you wish me to aid you in your distress?"

His eyes blazed. "Yes. Er… no, no…the ankle will be fine. The mechanism on the mirror takes two hands and foot to operate. I thank you for your assistance."

I shrugged on a robe, and turned back to see him wiping his brow with a handkerchief.

"Auditions went well for you today. You sang like a… cherub."

I lowered my eyes demurely. "Thank you. I hope to be cast as Belle, but as I am new, young, beautiful, and overwhelmingly the best suited for the role, I fear I shall not achieve my goal. My father would be so disappointed."

Cecil walked stiffly into the room to stand right behind me. I turned to face him, but he kept me in place. "You will be cast as the lead, I promise you this. Let me coach you, and I shall have the managers at your feet."

"M. Firmin has already licked my neck. I think I should prefer that they stay very much at a distance of twenty paces at all times."

His hand came to rest lightly on my stomach, and I trembled. "Perhaps I should reserve metaphors, similes, and allusions for a later, more intimate date," he murmured into my ear. "What I mean, my dear Catherine, is that you will be playing the role of Belle or many people will die; I will have to evade the authorities, some silly fop will most likely come to your rescue, but I- in my wild mad love- will take you and love you and call you Poopsie until you swear to be my wife.

"Which I guarantee, you will enjoy. Immensely. Don't give one thought to the fact that I've never been hugged, much less kissed, let alone touched in an intimate, sexual manner. I have _books_. I live in an Opera House. It's like having the Playboy Channel twenty-four seven. I've learned things that will make your toes curl…. In a good way."

His breath on my skin was warm and inviting, and he stole quickly away from me through the open mirror.

"Shut that, will, you?" he said as he vanished into the night.

The following morning, every chorus member swarmed to see the cast list posted on the managers' office door. I waited patiently until they had cleared and only Lissy and I were left.

"I'm sorry, Catherine," said Lissy.

I checked the piece of paper. "I've been cast as a songbird. Well, that's good, right? Songbirds sing! I could never have hoped for the lead, no matter how deserving I am."

Lissy lowered her head. "Songbirds do sing, Catherine, but not in this particular production."

"Why, whatever do they do, if not sing?"

"Oh, they get a line or two. Then Gaston shoots them dead."

I paled and promptly fainted on the spot.

Oh, Angelina, dearest womb-mate, you would not believe who stood over me as I came to! Patrick, the Viscompte of Jessica, was waving smelling salts under my nose, petting my hair and asking if I was all right.

"Yes, yes, I think so…" I said, stumbling to my feet as his strong arm went to my waist to steady me.

"The casting did not pan out as you had hoped, _mon petit chanteur d'amour_?"

I shook my head. "No, and I simply… thank you, M. le Viscompte."

He bowed and kissed my hand delicately. "May I interest you in lunch? As it seems I shall be killing you over and over again for the next several weeks?"

Oh, Angelina, I cannot express the thrill I felt over his offer! I blushed and thanked him; he offered me his arm and led me outside to his waiting carriage.

Sitting at the café, Patrick smiled as he drank his wine. "Catherine, I must apologize for my rude behavior yesterday."

I stopped mid-sip. "You… you were rude? No, no. It was foolish of me to presume that you would remember me at all."

"_Oh le contraire, ma petite beauté plantureuse nue," _he said with a wicked grin. "I remember you, very, very fondly. Fondling-ly, as it were…" he said under his breath.

"But why did you rebuke me? Renounce our childhood romance, our stalking, our…perversion of nature?"

Patrick leaned in and gestured for me to do the same.

"I am here in Paris on a mission. Surely you know what is happening?"

I thought carefully. Lissy had mentioned that Paris was in fact _not_ the glorified city of lights, love and careless extravagance. I planned to use her admission to my advantage now.

"The Opera House is using up all the wine in France?"

Patrick smirked. "No, my dear." He leaned in closer. "We are…_at war with ourselves!"_

"No!" I gasped and delicately placed a hand on my mouth, to demonstrate shock and revulsion.

"Yes. That is why I left our blissful Jessica Coast to come here and masquerade as a singer in order to gain knowledge as to a certain group's actions. Acknowledging our youthful bond in front of the entire company would have surely put you in danger!"

"But sitting at this café together, drinking and whispering… that is safe?"

He chuckled. "But of course! Now I am merely romancing you." He ducked his head. "At least, I would like to, very much."

I am sure, dearest twin, that I blushed anew. "I should think that acceptable, M. Viscompte. But, may you at least tell me with whom Paris is at war, other than… Paris?"

He frowned. "To do so may put you in great danger, but I trust that you are a bright, cunning young woman who would never divulge such secrets to anyone, not even your kin."

I nodded whole heartily.

"It is called… the French Communion!"

Angelina, I am afraid! The Pope is going to take over all of Europe!

All my love,

Catherine


	7. In which I am tutored

**A/N Thanks to Boat for loving Cecil. Thanks to Adison for marrying my phic. Thanks to Nipples McCrazy for making the movie. And I totally pooched the Disney lyrics for my own devious purposes. Oh, and I own nothing. Except for Angelina, Catherine, Patrick, Cecil and my own wacky sense of parody and humor**

1870, February 20.

Precious Angelina,

When I returned back to the opera house after lunching with Patrick, I was shocked, astounded and enthused to see a large package on my dresser. A beautiful blood red rose with a black satin ribbon sat atop it, and underneath that rose was a note with the words "To: Cherub, XOXO, O.G. PTO. RSVP" written in smeary black ink.

As I began to open the envelope, there was a knock at my door.

"Come in," I called, setting the missive down and smoothing my already perfectly pressed dress.

Madame Giry entered, and I could tell immediately by her countenance that she was most troubled.

"Madame, do sit. What can I do for you."

She shook her head and remained standing. "I 'ave come to speak wis you about zee Phantom."

My look of shock did not deter her.

"I know all about 'im, my dear." She gestured to the package and the rose. "'e asked me to deliver zat to you. 'is ankle ez still 'ealing."

My eyes began to mist over. Oh, my poor Cecil!

"And I need to know… what you know."

"Know about what?"

"About 'im and Christine Daaé."

Angelina, my skin grew cold. "He.. and Christine? No, that is not possible! Christine is-"

"Your sister. I know. Zare ez no resemblance: you are much prettier, more dainty, far better mannered, a more superior artiste… but I knew somehow zee moment you entered ze opera house."

"No, Madame. I meant to say.. Christine is not worthy of him! She is so… hateful! And ugly. With no respect for life, liberty, or the pursuit of happiness! She is…"

Oh, Angelina, it hurt to speak so truthfully of our own flesh and blood, no matter how disagreeable that fact of kinship may be to us.

"She is an evil spawn of Satan!"

I closed my eyes.

Madame Giry paled. "I-well, I don't know about all zat. I merely wanted to warn you. Ze Phantom ez a fickle if curiously dapper man. You must tread carefully! After zee last time, 'is 'eart cannot take much more."

"Madame Giry," I said as I approached her. "I shall do nothing to hurt him."

"I know my dear. That is, unless 'e asks you to. Zen you must not be shy. 'e 'as strange tastes. Very intriguing tastes. Delicious, really..." she said, her voice trailing off as if in wistful remembrance.

"Madame?"

"Yes? Oh. Forgive me." She tapped a finger to her head. "Dropped on my 'ead too many times in my dance career. I warn you girl, be careful! I will not cover for 'im zis time. I have my 401K to think about!"

She left me alone with my letter, my rose, my package and my confusion.

"My dearest Catherine,

We shall begin our lessons immediately. They may have cast you as the songbird, but I mean to cast you as the Countess (that was hastily scratched out) Pageboy (a large X placed on that one) Gaston (a wavy line of irritation marked up that one) …. The female lead! Begin studying the first aria. I will come for you at 4:00.

Yours,

C"

I promptly turned my attention to the large package wrapped in brown paper. Inside was an enormous book, titled "Oxford English Dictionary: The Very Condensed Version for Women and Pets."

Angelina, isn't Cecil thoughtful?

As I waited for Cecil, studiously reviewing Belle's first aria, my thoughts drifted back to Patrick. How brave is he to face the Pope! How clever is he to a join the Opera! Everyone knows that the Catholics love their theatrics. It makes perfect sense!

And should he need my help, Angelina, I shall not fail to help him overthrow this hasty Communion. He shall not fight alone. I love Paris too much to make it eat a wafer it _does not want!_

"Come to me, my Cherub of Crooning…"

I leapt to my feet! "Yes, my dear Cecil, I am here!"

"You received my gifts?"

"Oh yes! The rose was so lovely, and I took the opportunity to look up several new words!'

"Excellent. Shall we adjourn to my house beyond the lake?

He depressed the latch and the mirror slid open. I clapped my hands. "Oh, that was most magical!"

His brow furrowed. "I've done better, I assure you. Do you have your score, as I requested?"

I nodded. "Yes, and I have been reviewing Belle's first aria. But why should I learn it? Will we sing together in a strange duet of love, longing and unrequited passion for one another that can never be realized outside of our mutual fantasies?"

Cecil arched his one perfect eyebrow. "Unrequited? Not this time around."

I took his proffered hand, and he led me away.

Thirty minutes later, I was standing beside him at his great organ. He already had a copy of the _Beauty and the Beast _libretto, and was thumbing through to the correct spot.

"Do you need a warm up?"

"Oh, no. I've been singing all day! Why, even when I went to lunch with-"

Cecil turned his head sharply.

"With my score, to practice!"

"You went to lunch with your score?"

I nodded quickly. "Yes. To practice! I have very little money, and scores don't eat, so I thought it best to allow my music to keep me company."

"Ah," he said. "Overwhelming-if a little scary- devotion to music… check."

I nervously clutched my score to my chest. "See? It even hugs back!"

"Believes music can be a lover… check."

"I would die without my voice!"

"Potentially suicidal… check and check. This is going to be a breeze. Let's get to the aria, then, shall we?"

Cecil began to play the opening measures. I opened my mouth and sang the first line.

_Tiny suburb_

_It's a very boring place_

_Each morning, _

_I still have the prettiest face_

_Tiny suburb_

_Full of slothful slackers_

_Popping out to say:_

"Get off… my lawn! You know I've got a gun!" sang Cecil in perfect timing!

I dared not miss a beat!

_Look it's the mailman with his bag of goodies_

_Delivering bills and notes each day_

_Biting dogs and getting hosed_

_Telling people "the bank foreclosed!"_

_It's just the way in this tiny suburb!_

Cecil stopped playing. "Your tone is good, your pitch is perfect… but the breath. Your breathing is all wrong."

He slid the piano bench back and stood. I gasped. Cecil came around to stand very close to me, his soft, full, moist, plump lips inches from my face. I felt compelled to close my eyes and tilt my head back.

Thought I expected something completely different, Cecil turned me around gently and put his hand on my stomach.

"You are breathing from here."

I nodded and whispered, "Yes. Very very much so."

"When you need to be breathing from…_here_."

I looked down.

"From my breast?"

"What?"

"You have your hand on my breast."

He looked over my shoulder. "Oh. So I do."

"Do opera divas really breathe through their breasts?"

Cecil lowered his head to my shoulder and muttered, "Why must I always attract the slower set…"

His hand lifted and he placed it on my diaphragm. "You should be watching your posture and breathing from here. It will aid you in sustaining the longer notes with clarity… blah blah blah."

I placed my hand on his. "Yes, Cecil. I will remember." I turned to face him. "You are a wonderful vocal tutor! I am so very lucky…" I held his hand tenderly between my two very tiny, porcelain, delicately fragranced ones.

"Oh Catherine," he said, his eyes sparkling. "I promise to do my best by you. My very best. Better than the best. So good you'll hardly be able to walk, let alone breathe correctly."

"But I thought you wanted me to breathe correctly," I asked.

He closed his eyes, his long dark lashes fluttering as he seemed to roll his eyes and sigh dejectedly.

Angelina, Cecil is going to make me a star!

All my love,

Catherine


	8. In which I rehearse

**A/N Thanks to Elektra for excellent beta-ing, and to all those wonderful people who thought this was a serious phic. You totally bring joy to my life!**

1870, February 22.

Darling Angelina,

Alas, I could not sleep a wink last night, for my mind kept returning to Cecil's incredible prowess as a tutor, a magician, a florist, and a lover of trapdoors and breasts. He is, my precious womb-mate, the most perfect man alive.

And _so handsome_! However did our trollop of a sister reject his intriguing self? My brain begins to fever at the very thought of someone _denying_ his very true, real, tangible, breathtaking _beauty_!

In my sleepless state, I felt compelled to act, and I could think of only one pursuit that would fulfill my deepest urges.

Sewing!

I found a Singer sewing machine in my closet, and bolts upon bolts of the finest material you could imagine. Two baskets of lace and baubles sat on the closet floor, and I found several dress patterns, style books, a copy of _Vogue_ and a manual titled "Costuming the Ingénue: How to Properly Construct Apparel to Amplify the Cleavage yet Remain at All Times Pure and Perfect."

A note in one of the baskets confirmed my suspicions. It read:

"Precious Cherub,

I trust you know how to sew and take great delight in fabrics, accents, couture and describing minute details of anyone's wardrobe.

Be advised that my favorite color is blue. I am partial to red, but only when you are about to become enflamed with passion almost against your will (but not entirely), so hold off on that for just a while.

I would prefer that you skip traditional lacings on your dresses, and instead use Velcro for easy yet dramatic tearing.

Keep the corset laces; they tend to add to the sexual tension when I am forced to either fumble with them, expertly wrench them free, or flip you over and slice them off with my saber.

And, as always, I like garters and thigh-high stockings. Not only are they fairly time period appropriate, they just make life more enjoyable, don't you agree?

C"

When morning came, I was in possession of four beautiful new gowns. Donning the sky blue one that was a synthesis of a traditional 19th century bustle style and a more modern princess waist affair with a plunging neckline and balloon sleeves, I made my way to rehearsal.

Meg was dressed in her white practice outfit, a lavender satin bow around her waist, her flesh-colored tights wrinkling sweetly at her knees.

Madame Giry looked a fright in black silk. I should speak with her about color options for those with a fair complexion.

Lissy looked smart in a burgundy dress of cotton broadcloth; far too simple for my taste, as it lacked the kind of accoutrements that I find attract men and make them profess their undying love.

Men like baubles and trim, twin of my heart. No man can resist a few sparklies and some Rik Rak around the hem!

As rehearsal began, I found myself singing the words softly along with La Carlotta, who had been cast as Belle. I was, of course, ready for my one and only scene.

Patrick, resplendent in a camel colored suit and pink cravat, stepped forward and aimed his musket at me.

I sang, loud and true as my Cecil taught me, "La la laaaaaaaaaaaaaa"

"Bang!" yelled a stagehand. Patrick pretended to recoil from the kickback. I dropped gracefully to the floor, unfortunately crunching the gigantic bow on the back of my new frock.

Patrick ran to my side and chafed my hand.

"CUT!" bellowed M. Reyer. "M. le Viscompte, you must not rush over to the bird you have just felled! You must stride like a warrior, or a hunter. Not like a man in love with a precocious and obscenely talented extra who has no real chance of superceding our diva La Carlotta but who just might do so under strange and curious circumstances! When will you men learn?" He mopped his brow with his handkerchief.

Patrick paid him no mind. "Ma petite chère, are you alright?"

I smiled up at him. "Oh yes. I was just trying to die correctly."

"You die very beautifully, ma petite lamb pop!"

He helped me stand, and I smoothed my skirts fitfully. Lissy approached me, and fought to flatten the bow on my rear even more than it already was.

"Lucky for you, this thing and your bustle broke the fall," she said with a grimace. "You could have bumped your head. Not that we would have been able to tell the difference between you '_with_ a concussion' or you '_without_,' but…"

"Oh, thank you Lissy! I fear that I'm bringing far too much commitment to my role, and am coupling that commitment with an inordinate amount of enthusiasm."

"Something like that," she said softly.

M. Reyer cleared his throat. "Ladies and gentlemen, I suggest we take a thirty minute break for no apparent reason so that everyone may either talk, kiss, or generally find themselves in compromising positions. Best of luck to you all." He turned, snatched up Madame Giry's hand, and squired her away to his office to "go over some choreography."

I retired at once to my dressing room and my very large mirror. I looked slightly pale, a little disheveled, but ultimately as lovely as always. Oh my twin, how fortunate we are to have gotten all of Father's good genes and none of his ugly ones, like poor disgusting Christine!

The sound of my door opening disrupted my sweet reverie.

"Oh, ma petite potpie, you are a vision," cooed Patrick.

I gasped as he closed the door behind him. "Patrick! You shouldn't be in here! It is rather unseemly and utterly disgraceful!"

He shrugged, and then fell to his knees before me, his eyes wide. "Do you remember…" he began, then paused. "Could you sit at your dressing table so that we are, more or less, at eye level and right on target for kissing?"

I obliged. "This is even less appropriate, you know, M. le Viscompte of Jessica."

" Catherine, I do believe Raoul de Chagny made the same less virtuous overtures, and no one considered _him_ inappropriate."

"You know de Chagny?" I gasped.

"Who doesn't? He's always out and about in Paris, at all the fashionable parties, leaving his poor wife to suffer at home, alone, with her pimples."

"What did you say?"

"Oh yes," continued Patrick, now with a wide brilliant smile. "Raoul has taken to drinking excessively, earning himself quite the portly form! That and," he leaned forward to whisper, "most say he's currently chasing the dragon, if you know what I mean."

"He believes himself to be Don Quixote?"

"No, my dear. He smokes opium. Uses needles. Has track marks up and down his arms. And everyone knows that his poor wife has turned to pill popping. Thus, her horrible outbreak of acne. And she's very large. Not with child, mind you. No, they never share a bed. And he probably kicks her around. Because he's an evil drunk bastard who cares nothing for others, gambles their fortune away on horses and sleeps with loose women. Or is it that he sleeps with loose horses and gambles his money on women? I'm never quite sure."

"Oh Patrick!" I sobbed. "I knew it! The portrait of him on _Paris People_ was indeed airbrushed."

"I'm sorry to say, it was. And his wife, she is your sister, _non_?"

I blushed and turned my head away. "Unfortunately."

He touched my arm. "She is no reflection on you, my darling Tiny Tina."

"Tiny Tina! You remember!"

He touched my golden locks. "How could I forget? When your father would chase me away from your window, he would tell me stories about Tiny Tina and her irritable bowel syndrome. I dare say he wished for me to halt my pursuit of you."

"I suppose it didn't have the desired effect."

"No," he said, stroking my neck now. "No it did not."

Patrick leaned in and kissed my temple. "Do you remember those dark stories of the Upper East Side… they were so… titillating, weren't they?" He licked my ear.

The sound of cymbals crashing interrupted our intimate moment.

"Did that sound like it came from behind the…"

I stood quickly, grabbed Patrick's arm and hurried him out.

"Really, Catherine, what the hell was-"

"Nothing! We must get out of here!"

"But we have rehearsal in five minutes!"

"This is not the time to worry about your art, Patrick! Let go of your ideals! Run with me! Don't trip!"

I lead him down the back corridor, through a small passageway, over a bridge and underneath a row of people playing "London Bridge." Emerging finally into the cool afternoon air, he straightened his fine coat and looked at me.

"The stables?"

I looked around. Funny, I thought we were running to the rooftop.

"You minx! Catherine, I really don't know what to say. I was disappointed when it seemed you might affect a cool and proper air with me. But this… this is really… unexpected. And very thrilling to say the-"

"Patrick!" I harrumphed. "This was not my intended location. I wished to speak with you. Alone. Uninterrupted."

"Speak? About what?"

"The French Communion," I hissed.

"What about it?"

I stomped my pretty little foot angrily. "What is happening with your mission? Are the Papist rogues pressing forward? Must I costume as a nun in order to help you infiltrate the villainous rebels?"

"You certainly could dress as a nun. That might be fun…"

I nodded. "I shall work on a costume at once. Oh Patrick, I am so glad you are here. Not only to defeat those who would seek to force us into confessionals… but… it is good to have a familiar and friendly face here."

Patrick folded his arms and regarded my figure quietly. "I hope to become more familiar in a friendlier sort of way, very soon, ma petite crumpet."

What a gentleman!

All my love,

Catherine


	9. In which I am undone

**A/N: This chap is brought to you by the letter "S" and the ladies of the Vive Le Cleave: Gondolier, Paula74 and the Scorpion. This chap was conceived (snicker) in the Metropolitan Museum of Art (NYC) in the Egyptian wing.**

**Mary-Sue! You are the most fabulous squeer—Cecil loves you and Cat's a little jealous.**

**A special thank you to Elektra for beta service.**

1870, February 24.

Dearest Angelina,

This morning, I went down to the costume department to procure a bolt of black cloth and a bit of white. My wimple will surely take some time, but I thought I might get started on the basic habit.

Returning to my room, I set my things down near my sewing machine and began to work. Just as I began to cut along the bias, a strange melodious sound filled my perfect ivory ears.

A violin! Like Father used to play!

The melody compelled me to cast the nun costume aside and follow the sound. I wandered, entranced of course, not knowing my final destination, half awake and half dreaming, rather slushy in the mind, my eyes wide, my feet nimble, my breasts heaving, out towards the stage.

The music paused, and then a cello could be heard! The deep strong thrusting of a bow, the massive instrument!

I thought of Father again and continued on my way.

Following the sound, I crept up the sixty-nine flights of stairs, and found myself on the rooftop. So it was here!

Oh Angelina, the view was truly remarkable! I could see all of Paris: from the bustling market and the alleys teeming with strange, scantily clad women, over to the little flats and the Bois de Bologna!

In the bright sunlight, I stood there, absorbing the landscape, until I could hardly breathe. Suddenly, I heard a riff from an electric guitar, and I felt compelled to unlace the ties at the bottom of my milky bosom.

Then suddenly, even as I thought perhaps my soul could not bear any more beauty, a voice from the shadows began to sing:

_I've been meaning to tell you _

_I've got this feelin' that won't subside _

My chest pounded, my mouth became moist and I licked my lips. I cast my gaze to and fro, but the voice was undaunted. The sound undulated from the shadows, and my cheeks began to twitch.

_I look at you and I fantasize _

_Darlin' tonight _

_Now I've got you in my sights_

Cecil stepped forward, dressed immaculately in dark black wool, a fedora low on his brow. I gasped, and felt my pulse quicken and hum. His lips curled into a smirk.

My eyes widened.

His eyebrow twitched.

My jaw slacked.

He rolled his shoulders.

My hips trembled!

"A _member _of the chorus, are we now?" he said, as a cock crowed in the far distance. "From the nether regions, you shall burst! You will be the brightest star… like fireworks, or perhaps a quiver that flows upwards like a white hot bolt of lighting that flashes before one's eyes before they tremble and fall to the ground in a shuddering, gasping mess of humanity!"

I touched my throat.

Cecil quirked his upper face.

My nose wriggled.

He opened his perfect mouth again:

_With these hungry eyes _

_One look at you and I can't disguise _

_I've got hungry eyes _

_I feel the magic between you and I_

Oh… the sound of his voice! I found myself wanting to weep, to smile, to die, to die _just a little_, to dance, to sit on a bench and try to eat an apple, and to generally writhe my body on his leg.

I tried to avoid the latter.

I looked down and noticed that I couldn't keep my hands still. I groaned, softly then loudly. Then I mewled and moaned, shuddered and screwed my eyes shut.

_I want to hold you so hear me out _

_I want to show you what love's all about _

I could feel my body cleave to his, feel my hands run over his impossibly strong and ripped chest.

His tight, hard, throbbing appendage forced itself up in the air: Cecil thrust up his left arm, which held an umbrella, as a cooling rain began to fall.

_Darlin' tonight _

_Now I've got you in my sights_

The ties on my bodice were being undone! I was powerless against the will of his pulsating voice! His tool, the snake that was his most holy instrument of pleasure, pain and tickling fun was _inside _me!

My eyelids fluttered.

His nostrils flared.

My cheeks flushed!

The snow swirled around us, but I did not notice the cold, as I was warmed by the heat of Cecil's sword of love.

_Now I've got you in my sights _

_With these hungry eyes _

_Now did I take you by surprise _

How I managed to stay upright, I do not know. The boots I wore knocked together as my thighs trembled. I found myself in quite a rut, my mind convulsing against itself.

"You have such a deep, throaty voice," I murmured.

"I'd wager yours is deeper," he intoned.

"Oh!" I gasped.

Cecil's face was so close to mine. I was frozen in place, though not cold, as the sun began to shine again.

_I need you to see _

_This love was meant to be_

"Yes!" I screamed. "Oh God yes, Cecil, yes!" I tossed my head about. "Oh god yes don't stop don't stop more yes harder faster deeper!"

Cecil grinned smugly. "Thought so. Who's got the more masterful sword now, Raoul?"

My eyes snapped open. "Raoul de Chagny?"

Cecil huffed. "Maybe?"

At that moment, Lissy exploded through the door, panting and perspiring. "What the—"

Cecil stepped away from me quickly, and I looked down at my pink self.

Angelina! I was nearly naked!

Lissy untied her cloak and forced it on me, which felt quite satisfying at the time.

A strange "harrumph" sound came from behind Apollo's Lyre. Before I had a chance to enquire, Lissy was whirling me about.

"Catherine, you're likely to catch a death of cold of here, what with you being stripped down to your chemise and all." She cast a look of reproach at Cecil, who curiously made no move of retreat.

I looked up at Cecil with clearer eyes, and noticed that he was, in fact, fully clothed and quite in control of his faculties.

How quickly he must have dressed! Why, just moments before he was quite all over my person, of that I am sure! Well, I think I am sure. Perhaps I was dreaming. Or imagining. Hoping?

Wishing he were somehow nude on me?

Never! Not yet! Not for a while! In the very near future?

Cecil tipped his fedora. "Mademoiselle de Mithrileux. Lovely to see you again."

"And you, Monsieur. Up to the old ingénue business again, I see?"

"I am a quick study. I shall not make the same mistakes this time."

"I have no doubt of that. Try not to light the Opera house on fire again, if you don't mind? The smoke inhalation was rather vexing."

"But of course."

Lissy regarded me. "I hope you don't mind that I take Catherine away. Seems she's quite… beleaguered."

"Certainly," said Cecil. "This was just the sample sale. Why, if I went with the full monty, the child might not survive!"

"And the arc would peter out," suggested Lissy.

"The tale would get the shaft," countered Cecil.

"The beast with two backs!"

Lissy and Cecil stared at me as I pointed to an oversized gargoyle. "That is purely unnatural," I cried.

Cecil sighed. "Take her to her dressing room, will you? I need to go… work on my organ."

Lissy smiled. "Ah yes. Good luck with that. Hope the exertion produces a fulfilling climax."

"It always does."

As Lissy led me away, I could have sworn that I heard Patrick calling to me, offering himself to me as a substitute.

Surely he must be concerned over my intention to help him overthrow the French Communion!

Tomorrow, I shall tell him that I am willing to submit to his every whim.

Yours truly and exhaustedly,

Catherine

_A/N Lyrics to Hungry Eyes by Eric (with a "C" not a "K") Carmen—it's from Dirty Dancing, if you are a young'in._


	10. In which I dream

**A/N This Buds for you, Banana! I hope your weekend is spanktacular! Much loff to ma beta, Elektra!**

1870, February 25.

Dearest Angelina,

My precious womb mate, I am at a loss.

I know myself to be an astonishing singer.

I cut, without a doubt, a figure of remarkable style and grace.

My lush golden hair has not one dull follicle.

I can prepare a fine feast and sew a gown with the greatest of ease.

How is it, then, that I am most confused when it comes to the men of the Opera Populaire-Garnier?

Everything was so much simpler back on the coast with you, Father, Patrick and the hag who shall not be named.

When I returned to my room, shivering with cold and some unrecognizable yet thoroughly pleasant sensation in my most unknown and rather disavowed region, Lissy put me to bed at once.

"If the mirror rattles, do not answer it," she commanded. "I give him thirty minutes at the most to… compose. He might think it sport to come up here and try to lure you down to the fifty-seventh cellar. Listen to me, Catherine, " she said, tilting my chin up, "do not- I repeat- do _not_ go to him. I don't care if he sings Barry White. You need your rest. We have a full run-through tomorrow, and you need to die with aplomb."

I nodded, and she smiled. "Very well then. I'll see you in the morning."

Once she had left, I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep. Incredibly, I dreamed so vividly that I remember every single detail as it were happening to me in reality, but a reality fraught with cloying metaphor, epic symbolism and a touch of the fantastic just to add a spot of dramatic irony to the whole endeavor.

And thus, the dream sequence commences!

_I was alone in a field of grass, clad in a glittering white dress, my hair in cascading curls, walking with my arms outstretched, feeling perfectly fresh and clean, like a summer's eve._

_I heard a voice call to me. _

_Turning, I saw a small white rabbit palm a pocket watch, raise his paw at me and lift the tiny middle toe. Refusing to be dissuaded from pursing the voice, I kicked a bit of dirt at the rabbit, which suddenly turned into a cigar and began to smoke himself._

_I ran towards the voice, which grew louder and louder until I was standing before an enormous mirror floating in the field._

_I looked magnificent!_

_The voice sang so beautifully: _

"_Sing once again with me, our strange duet!"_

_I opened my mouth, and began to vocalize, then stopped in confusion. "I don't know which piece you mean. From _Beauty and the Beast_?"_

_The voice huffed. "No! Our 'strange duet' is the fact that you and I have an uncommon bond of music and sexual tension. It is a 'duet' in that there are two of us… or at least one and a half people present. The 'strange' element lies in the fact that, well, I live underground, wear a mask, and prance about in a very big and cumbersome cape. 'Strange' also applies to the unique and erotic relationship we're developing."_

_The voice paused._

"_Stop listening to the words; they will only confuse you. Focus on the throbbing melody and the pumping electric guitars. Where the hell was I…"_

"_Where are you, oh strange duet-er?"_

_The entire landscape vanished, and I was suddenly in a palace, I think. An opulent house of gold and marble._

_My white dress had changed to blood red, and I wandered down an impossibly long hallway. "Cecil"' I cried. "Oh Cecil, come to me! Come to me my Cherub of Crooning!"_

"_I'm in here! Wait one minute. You are _my_ Cherub of Crooning. I'm your… I don't know what the hell I am. This always gets challenging."_

_I pushed open a massive door. A roaring fire bellowed in the enormous fireplace. I walked towards it, mesmerized by the flames._

"_Do I get your knickers all in a twist?"_

_I looked down to see Cecil sprawled on a bearskin rug, wearing his mask, a pair of black leather boots, and nothing else._

_I gasped! _

_He grinned seductively at me, then looked down and shrieked!_

"_Where in the name of God did my genitalia go?"_

_I covered my eyes and shook my head._

"_I've never seen a man naked! I don't know what you… look like… down there!" I cried._

"_My God, woman! Can't you make something up? Haven't you seen a picture book or a filthy slide show or something?"_

_I began to wail. "I'm sorry! I really don't know what to do!"_

_Cecil rolled over, folded his arms and laid his head down._

"_Catherine," he said with a muffled voice, "you are going to be the death of me. I really thought Christine was just about the worst-case scenario. But _you_. If you weren't so damn attractive, supple, talented and stupid, I'd pack my bags and hop the next train for Amsterdam."_

Oh, Angelina, what a terrible yet immensely sensual nightmare!

As I came to from my frightening subconscious, I felt a presence in the room. Groggy still, I could not speak, but as my immensely long eyelashes fluttered open, I beheld the greatest horror!

The most haggard face!

Christine.

Yours in fear and loathing,

Catherine


	11. In which I deal with my sister

**A/N: Special thanks to jennyfair for her spanktacular beta-ing! If you haven't seen her artwork on deviant art or PFN… get over there! She works magic with her Sharpie!**

Happy birthday Mary-Sue! This Mary-Sue is all for you!

1870, February 26.

Precious Angelina,

Can you even imagine my shock, my dismay, my utter _revulsion_ at the sight of the _face?_

Why, it was hardly a face at all. It was very bloated, with black circles under the eyes and dry lips with a spot of crust in the corner. I sat up sharply, clutching the blanket to my chest.

"What are you—"

Christine shushed me with one grimy finger to my plump, moist lips. I stared at her with wide blue eyes. She looked down on me with large blue-gray-brown ones. Standing from my chaise lounge, she walked over to the mirror.

"You've been staying in here, I take it?" she said softly, with a hint of longing and some indescribable sound that reminded me of the way I moaned after meeting Cecil on the rooftop.

I nodded dumbly.

"I suppose… you like it in here?" She walked over to the nun's habit I was making and fingered the fabric. "Did he ask you to dress up?"

I gaped. "No one asked me to do anything, Christine. Not yet. Well, no in so many words. Or not that I could tell, at any rate."

I grew flustered.

"Now tell me, what are you doing here, dear sister?" I commanded as best I could, attempting to demonstrate my strength of will and my sense of authority in the wake of the attentions of Cecil and Patrick and despite my terribly poor casting.

Christine strutted about the dressing room as if she knew the layout by heart. Sitting at the vanity, she reached for my powder puff and dabbed her face, much to my dismay. "This was my dressing room, you know."

Angelina, the nerve of this woman!

"Yes, dear sister, but you left the Opera Populaire-Garnier for—"

Christine grimaced. "Don't remind me." She stood from her seat. "How is the new production going? Do they miss having a perfect ingénue with incredible range, sensitivity to emotional apexes, broad range appeal and a haunting specter of a promoter hell bent on securing her wild fame and fortune?"

"Not in the least."

She sighed. "Do you have anything to eat in here?"

I shrugged. "No. I don't eat, you know? I have no use for food unless it is being used to tempt to other indulgences; nor do I use the bathroom for anything other than crying or contrived bathing in the hopes that someone catches me unaware and soapy."

"I remember those days."

I wrapped my blanket around me and walked over to her. "Christine, why are you here?"

Her large brow-gray-blue eyes welled with tears, and she began to cry. "I've decided to leave Raoul!"

"No!"

"Yes!"

"But, Christine! You are a Countess! You have money and a handsome husband… and money… and a big house! You are a success of your sex! Not to mention the fact that you were just a lowly dancer, or just a lowly singer, or not terribly lowly at all, depending on the stories one hears…"

The tears were unending. Streaks of mascara lined her pale cheeks. "I thought perhaps, if I came back, he would sense it… like a tingling in his…and he would come back to me. Or at least stare at me. Make a noise? Grunt? Turn his head and cough?"

She looked pointedly at the mirror.

"Christine, as lovely as it is that you've stopped by," I said, patting her hand lightly, "I really must change now and prepare for rehearsal. Surely Raoul will be expecting you home for breakfast?"

"I doubt it. He went out again last night. He has most likely sent a note saying that he and his male companions imbibed too heartily and he was forced to stay at one of his friends' chateaux. He always claims that the messenger boy service is busy or something, that he tried to send me a letter earlier in the evening but could not make it through. Sometimes," she whispered, her tears refreshing, "I can smell a woman's perfume on the note cards! Raoul always denies this, telling me that I'm 'smelling things' and that I'm 'not right in the head.' But I can tell! And so, I wish to divorce him and take most of his estate right out from underneath him."

Angelina, I could have sworn I heard a snicker from behind the mirror!

Christine whirled around and ran over to it, her arms stretched out wide.

"Come to me, strange angel!"

I stared at her.

"Too long I've wandered in winter!"

I frowned. "The cold season's just begun. And you've got extra layers these days, you should be fine…"

Christine turned her face to me, bared her teeth and hissed! She again prostrated herself in front of the glass.

"My soul, by mind, and my thighs are ready to obey you, Master!"

A coincidently yet perfectly timed knock on the door kept me from knowing exactly how Christine's thighs were going to obey. Lissy poked her head through, taking in the sight of me in my blanket and Christine rubbing herself against the mirror.

"I can come back—"

"Oh no!" I shouted. "Lissy, this is—"

"Christine…er, nice to see you again," said Lissy. "Catherine, rehearsal is in ten minutes."

Christine had not moved from the mirror, though she was moving on it intently. I sighed and dressed in a pale iridescent blue gown, running my fingers through my sumptuous ringlets to enhance their volume and reinvigorate their luster.

I finally left Christine and her mirror alone, and went to the stage.

We were to rehearse Act III, which included a charming ballet section featuring Meg as Lead Villager Hunting the Beast. How she deftly balanced a blazing torch in one hand as she pirouetted with ease! As if she'd done this before! Madame Giry kept an eye up to the fly space, raising a finger every so often and shaking it madly, as if scolding a small child. I watched from the wings, forlorn, thumbing through my Compact Oxford Dictionary and thinking of Cecil.

Was his the snickering voice behind the mirror? Did he still care for Christine? Would he sing Barry White to me? Would _my _thighs obey?

"So deep in thought, my crisp cherry torte?"

I looked up to see Patrick kneeling beside me, looking ever so dashing in his Gaston costume. He took my hand and brushed his lips over the knuckles.

"How are your plans coming along?" I whispered into his ear.

"Which plans are those, mon petit pigeon?"

"Why, you know! I am ready to assist you in anyway possible!"

Patrick pulled away slightly, looked into my eyes and smirked. "In any way? Truly, you are brave. And flexible, I hope."

"Oh, yes! I would do anything to be of service to you and your dreams of conquest!"

"Could I be any more fortunate?" He sighed with contentment. "Meet me in the old rehearsal room at the end of the hallway at, say… 8 o'clock tonight. Wear something that buttons down the front, and don't bother with hosiery."

"No hosiery? Does hosiery obstruct truth and justice?"

Patrick smiled conspiratorially. "Why yes, yes it does." He sobered in an instant. "But Catherine, I must demand something of you. You must tell no one that we are meeting in secret. There are people here, concealed people, people who hide… their faces… who might be most against the adventure that I've got planned."

Lost in my confusion over whom he could possibly mean, I simply agreed to his demand and promised to meet him.

He stood and returned to his place on the stage. As I watched him, my eye trained down to a hand coming out of the floor! A long fingered hand on top of a very thin wrist emerging from a white dress shirt cuff and a loose black coat! The mysterious hand held a paper bag, which it slid onto the stage. The hand disappeared for a moment, and then returned with a lit match, setting the bag aflame before it disappeared for good.

Carlotta began screaming frantically, and even Meg looked annoyed, though far less annoyed than she would have been if the rogue appendage had issued itself forth during her solo!

"Someone! Fire! The Opera Populaire-Garnier shall burn down for sure!"

"Ladies!" Patrick cried valiantly. "Stand back… I shall take care of this destructive blaze from Hell!" He ran to the bag and began to stomp fiercely; a strange, foul brown substance splattered everywhere and more assuredly onto Patrick's boots and pants.

A maniacal cackle sounded from overhead.

"César sends his regards! A-HA HA!"

Meg stepped forward, took a deep breath, and spoke-sang, "He's here, the Phantom of the Opera!"

Soft applause drifted down.

"Meg Giry, your tone is getting much better. But really, you need to support your breath in that last note. If not, you really undermine the phrasing."

Meg smiled, quickly curtsied, frowned and emitted a little squeal as she ran to the wings.

I stepped out onto the stage and looked up to the catwalk, spotting the mysterious figure.

The voice rang through the theater.

"Truly, this is a brilliant addition to _my _Opera house's repertory. You follow up my magnum opus with this paltry drabbling excuse for a work of art? Did you not learn anything over the past twenty some odd years? I am a musician! I know the difference between Gilbert and Sullivan and Mozart! You people insist on mounting the most inane operas…it's as if you _want _me to come up here and unleash holy hell all over you!"

The voice paused.

"You… you like me. You really like me, don't you?"

No one answered.

"Fine…well...that hurts."

A low growl erupted into a might roar!

"You thought dropping a chandelier was bad? HA! Child's play to my future plans if Ms. Daaé is not cast in the role of Belle!"

M. Reyer's eyes rolled "Son of … not another Daaé. What is it with you women?" he cried, staring me down.

Just then, I heard an inhuman cry from the back of the theater.

"ANGEL!"

Christine was lumbering forward towards me, curly chocolate brown hair askew. She pushed me out of the way and took the center stage focal point. "Angel, I have returned!"

The trapdoor opened, and Christine started to fall. She managed to fling herself to the right, clinging to the side and scrambling to pull herself out of the hole.

"Angel, it's me!"

"Yes, I can see that."

"Come to me, my angel!"

"You're kidding, right?"

Christine looked dumbfounded. "No, I'm not kidding… I don't think I'm kidding…I've never been the joking type…have I, Catherine?"

I shook my head. "I don't think so. But Father did enjoy laughing at you."

Christine cried again. The company of performers sighed.

The voice came floating down. "My demands have been issued. I have work to do. Just for the sake of clarity… when I said 'Ms. Daaé,' I meant the younger one. The prettier one. The one with the enormous… blue eyes."

Christine crumbled into a heap of wailing on the floor. I stepped over her and let Patrick embrace me protectively.

"I won't let him touch you," he murmured. "No matter how much you think you might really want just that to happen. I will make all of your choices for you, I tell you how to feel about things, and I will most likely force you to go against your own value system. How does that sound?"

"Will my total submission help you defeat the Communion?"

"Probably."

"Patrick, I'm yours!"

All my love,

Catherine


	12. In which I take a stand

**A/N: Dearest lamp chop reviewers! I loff you. You are all precious! Much thanks to Elektra, who helps me suss out the crazy and catches my mistakes!**

1870, February 27.

Darling Angelina,

Somehow, under great duress of course, the rehearsal continued after Cecil's grandiose interruption. The filth was cleaned off the stage, Patrick changed clothes, I changed clothes after I noticed a smear of horse manure on my otherwise pristine gown from allowing Patrick to hug me so fiercely, and we resumed the run through.

My death scene was dull and poorly executed, I am sad to report. Oh beloved womb-mate, my attention was far too distracted to focus on falling with grace. Even Patrick noticed my inert self on the ground as he reached down to grab my arm and drag me off stage.

The time passed too slowly, leading me to dwell too long on our sister's terrifying reappearance and Cecil's ominous warnings. The managers escorted the sobbing Christine from the theater and placed her in the Chagny carriage. Nothing was said about Cecil's demands that I assume the lead singer-lyric-soprano-mezzo-corte position at all.

Perhaps they shall make a more formal announcement of my promotion!

I returned to _my _dressing room around seven o'clock in order to freshen up so that I may meet Patrick smelling even more perfect than I already did. I evaluated my reflection, and upon a great deal of contemplation, decided to don my rose-colored gown with the plunging neckline. I gently heaved my bosom as I buttoned the bodice, allowing my ivory pillows to teasingly overflow the confines of silk and whalebone.

Dusting a bit of powder between my bulbous mammaries, I set off towards the old rehearsal studio.

_Oh, Cecil, wherever can you be? And what new perverse prank have you up your sleeve this time?_

I didn't have to wait long for an answer.

A gloved had clasped on my mouth as an arm snaked about my waist. I thought I could feel a third arm knead into my back, but my attempts to distinguish the appendages holding me ceased as a warm breath tickled my earlobe.

"Not a sound."

"Mmky."

"No. Don't speak."

"Mmhm."

"You are missing a crucial element to this process. Do not utter a single syllable. Pretend that you are mute. That you have lost the power of speech. Shake your head 'yes' if you in any way comprehend."

I nodded.

"You meant to betray me tonight, but I am not angry, Catherine. In fact, I am actually rather pleased. Oh, not with you actually agreeing to meet this fool of a 'gentleman' who fills your head with pretty words, none of which he means. That was truly bad form on your part.

"However, I am pleased with your choice of attire. You did not wear this dress for _him_," Cecil hissed. "You wore this for me."

I gasped, and breathed in the scent of leather and patchouli.

"And now, I shall endeavor to please you as you have pleased me."

I stiffened.

Cecil stiffened.

That pointed sensation returned. Was that a gun at my lower back?

Did Cecil mean to shoot me dead in the very opera house where he meant me to be a star?

My dove gray-blue-crystalline eyes like the sea welled with tears as Cecil released me and turned me to him forcefully. I looked down to face the pistol with all my strength of character and true bravery, but he pulled his cloak tighter around his body and shifted his weight.

"I have a surprise for you. An outing, if you will."

"But I thought you were going to shoot me…" I whispered tremulously.

Cecil looked bewildered, then smirked and adjusted his fedora. "Shall we, my dear? I promise not to shoot you." He offered me the crook of his arm and led me out of the Opera Populaire-Garnier into the darkened alley.

"I've never shot anyone before, to be honest. It's a rather impersonal way to kill, don't you think?" Cecil suggested as he proceeded to hail a hansom.

"Well, I suppose it is," I said nervously.

"I more prefer getting right up in there, into the thick of it. Or, I should say, I used to enjoy it. Seems I've sworn off killing these days," he rambled as he helped me in. "And I've been curiously absolved from the two murders last year and the slew of others no one cares to think about much. At all really. Or, that's how Lissy explained it to me."

"You spoke with Lissy?"

Cecil ignored my question.

"Twenty some odd years of punjabbing, assassinations, death festivals, piercings, body modification and mortification, morphine hounding, torture chamber constructions… right down the chamber pot. If I wasn't up there in years—" Cecil paused and looked down at himself "—actually, I'm not really that old anymore. Spectacular, isn't it?"

I must having been staring at him, because Cecil narrowed his eyes and regarded me coolly. "Forgive me, my dear. This is your evening, not mine to bemoan the loss of my edge."

He took my hand and kissed it. "You have been wasting away in the opera house for too long. You need fresh air and a charming jaunt to…revive your senses."

I looked out of the window into the darkened night sky, and then down to a park. The Bois de Bologna!

"I have brought you…." spoke-sang Cecil grandly.

I clasped my hands together in anticipation.

"To the…Bois of fair strolling and snogging…"

My hands fell.

Cecil smiled broadly.

"I grow weary of certain phrases. I'm learning to adapt the arrangements offered to me."

He opened the door to the hansom, leapt out and helped me down.

Once in the Bois, Cecil led me over to an enormous tree, whose graceful limbs were so old and long that they nearly dipped to the ground! There, he produced a satchel from underneath his cloak. Opening the bag, he fished out a large blanket and a picnic basket.

Angelina, he truly is a magician!

"My dear," Cecil purred, inviting me on to the lush fabric. He sat beside me and began to unpack the basket.

"I know it is late, and quite too dark for a traditional outing of this sort, but I hope—" he paused to light a candle "—you will have brought your appetite. Your dress indicates as much."

Cecil laid out an assortment of fruits and vegetable thoughtfully displayed on cut glass trays. My eyes wandered hungrily out of my head and back again.

Cecil put his hand to him mouth and shuddered.

"I know this may sound very hypocritical given the cards I've been dealt, but please don't _ever_ let your eyes wander like that again. Eyes must stay in one's head, lest one's companion has to rethink his plan."

Regaining his composure, he reached over to the platter.

"Let's see here, oh! What lovely cherries I've brought. Would you care for one? I myself love a tender, ripe red orb… perfect for suckling." Cecil placed the cherry in his mouth and laved on it. He picked another one up and brought it to my lips this time.

"Savor each sensation…" he murmured as he popped my cherry in. I chewed quietly and smiled up at him.

"Yes, that was good."

"But here," he said, grasping a large cucumber, "this may delight you even more."

I eyed the beast warily. It was too much! No one's mouth could get around that!

"Oh Cecil, I couldn't possibly fit that in! Why, you must cut it!"

Cecil grimaced. "You prefer them with the skin removed, I take it."

"Oh yes. With mayonnaise and a dash of pepper."

Cecil's eyes widened.

"Is that alright?"

The sound of plodding footfalls disrupted Cecil's agonized response.

"CATHERINE! CATHERINE!"

Cecil stood quickly, surveyed the landscape, swore viciously, grabbed his satchel, kissed my hand and leapt upwards into the tree above!

"CATHERINE , WHERE ARE YOU? I AM SO ANGRY RIGHT NOW I HAVE FORGOTTEN ALL MY FRENCH VOCABULARY AND I AM GOING TO KILL WHOEVER YOU ARE WITH!"

I stifled a scream as I saw a furious Patrick approaching our picnic site.

"What in God's name are you doing? I thought you were to meet me at 8? And I find you out here having dinner for two…alone?"

I shrugged helplessly at him.

A cherry came sailing from the heavens to bean Patrick on the head.

"What the—"

A cheese cube followed.

"Hey!"

I looked up, but could see nothing but shadow! Blessed darkness! Which suddenly, inexplicably seemed… musical! And attractive. Very much so.

"Catherine, this man… this _thing_… is not your…" Patrick paused.

"My what?"

"Whatever it is that you should think him to be that makes you want to be with him in any way that is physical, emotional, spiritual or sensual in nature!"

A banana flew at Patrick, but he ducked admirably.

"You masked fiend! Come down here and fight me like the man you wish you were!"

"Patrick," I pleaded, "no! You mustn't!"

"Your hubris is touching," whispered a voice that seemed to come from behind Patrick. "Touchingly ridiculous."

Patrick drew a riding crop from his belt.

"I was saving this for later… but I shall not back down from a fight with you, accursed Phantom."

A spray of whipped cream caught Patrick unawares. "I, too, was saving that for later… but look! You wear it so well! Surely you can do better with name-calling, you feeble minded buffoon."

Wiping the cream from his eyes, Patrick brandished the whip with authority.

"Ugly bastard!"

"Please! Childish ingrate!"

"Incompetent note writer!"

"You can barely read! Keep going Monsieur! Don't stop now!"

Patrick took a breath.

"Tone-deaf impotent virgin."

"ARRRRGH!"

The satchel connected with Patrick's chest, bowling him over. I knew not whether to cheer or cry, to laugh or frown, to run to Patrick's aid or climb the tree and eat Cecil's delicious cucumber.

Oh Angelina! In that moment, I heard Father's words replaying in my head.

_A little to the left dear, yes, just like that!_

Of course, that had no bearing on my present conundrum. I marched away from the scene entirely, head held high, and once a short distance away, I turned and addressed the both of them.

"Though I have never had such feelings before, I find within myself a well-spring of personal fortitude and immensely unrealistic self-assuredness for a woman of my stature and position in the late 19th century. I shall leave the both of you now in an impressive and anachronistic display of feminism. Neither of you will expect this, yet both of you will come to deeply respect me for it, never questioning this abrupt change in my behavior.

"Goodnight to you both!"

With that, I triumphantly marched off, towards the road, never looking back to confirm that both indeed were simultaneously bewildered and impressed by my outburst.

I stood at the entrance to the Bois and raised my hand to hail a hansom.

Only then did I realize I was penniless.

Abjectly,

Catherine


	13. In which I am a joiner

**A/N: This chappy is for phantomy-cookies, a very talented artist, a brill writer and reviewer, and a dern funny lady who mixes zee smarts and the crazy with equal measure. This whore's for you!**

1870, February 28.

Beloved Angelina,

Standing there, on Rue Ham Bone, I felt an overwhelming wash of fear and loneliness overtake my delicate sensibilities. Oh sister, I wanted to cry, or pout, or simply lie down and wait for a man to come and help me. Why oh why didn't I realize that my change purse was in my dressing room at the Opera house?

Looking up and down the deserted street, I couldn't quite remember the ride to the Bois de Bologna. I'd been far too involved in Cecil's tale, and the very handsome side of his face, to pay attention to such silly things as landmarks and directions. And now how I longed for Cecil to be at my side, with money and even that gun of his. His dark presence, which always seemed to surround me at the Opera Populaire-Garnier, was now a vacancy in my soul.

Why hadn't he run after me? Surely he knew that I would become lost and confused, and need his guidance and fondling now more than ever?

I trudged up the boulevard, lifting my skirts over the puddles of mud and horse waste, I pitifully mused over my situation. It must have been nearly ten o'clock, I reasoned. Where might I find money, or shelter, or a strong man to touch me inappropriately? Perhaps I could sing for a few francs? Why, Cecil couldn't be angry with me if I used my gift for my own financial gain instead of simply for his compositions and imagination?

Darling sister, my mind kept turning back to my dear masked captor, who seemed to genuinely care for me and for my career. Why, had he not spoken of my ample assets? Praised my pretty posture? Lauded my limberness?

I was lost in my romantic thoughts when I heard a coarse shout from just up Rue Ham Bone.

"Oy! What you doing out 'ere?"

I dropped my skirts and looked about. No one near me, so the voice must have meant _me_! Could this be another ghost-person of tutoring and touching?

A shapely woman in a shabby dress approached me. She looked me up and down as she tucked a few bills between her downy mounds.

"You working tonight?" she inquired, one eyebrow arched.

"Oh, no Madame," I said, shaking my head sadly. "We all got off early."

Her eyes narrowed, and she adjusted the bodice of her dress roughly. "Ah, I see." She stared at me, and I squirmed under the scrutiny. "First time, eh?" she asked with a smirk.

"Well, yes, I am very new to the lifestyle, though my father had been training me for this day since I was just a tiny tot!"

She blanched.

I smiled proudly.

"Yes, well," she said, clearing her throat. She leaned in closer to me and whispered, "You are here for the meeting, I imagine."

"I don't know…that is to say…"

"It's alright, I know the way. Say no more!" She grabbed my wrist and pulled be after her down the street. We turned a corner and she directed us to a red door on Rue Storyville. "You go in the front here. I'll go for the backdoor entrance and we'll meet in the Pleasure Center."

I watched her disappear down an alleyway and decided to obey her instruction. The foyer was dark, and as I closed the door behind me, I fumbled about to find a candle or some source of light.

The woman came bounding down the hall and grasped my hand. "No, no, everyone is downstairs. Come on then!"

I could not help but follow. We flew down the narrow stairway until she stopped us before a thick wooden door, where she rapped three times and leaned forward to whisper, "I dreamed a dream?"

A rustle from the other side of the door preceded the gruff voice that answered, "But the tigers come at night."

"Agreed, Robert. And then man came and stole my maidenhead and left me to die… open the door!"

The door creaked open to reveal a tall man with a shock of white hair who said, "Truly, Lucky McTrollop, you really must stick to the script!"

"Yes, yes," said Lucky with a dismissive wave of her hand. "But everyone knows that whores always die unhappily, even if they have done a very good job by even their strangest customers, who without fail cause the women of ill repute to fall madly in love against their pragmatic work ethic. Surely we can avoid rehashing the _same_ script again and again…"

"And just who is this?" interrupted the man as he appraised me.

"Another of our dear browbeaten sisters, M. Mondieu," she replied. "I found her wandering about after her 'job' had ended, looking for the meeting."

"So she's not one of the girls at the Pleasure Center?"

Lucky shook her head. "No, but we can't discriminate when it comes to helping our own! Tell us, dear," she said then, turning to me, "what is your name?"

"Catherine," I whispered.

"Really? Not Caitlin? Or Amelié? Or Suzanne Rosepetal de Bramblybriar?"

I shook my head.

Lucky patted my shoulder. "Catherine is a lovely name. I'm sure all the gents like it just fine. Come, let's get you outfitted."

She led me into a small room crowded with men of all shapes and sizes. A few women stood cloistered in a corner, whispering and lifting their skirts to the soft clapping of an appreciative audience. We passed in front of a long table with baskets on top: I was handed a pistol, a loaf of bread, a thin leaflet entitled "Making the Most of Your Moral Ambiguity," a red flag for waving and crying into, a pert red cap to sit smartly on my head, and a size medium t-shirt that read, "I Fought the Law and the…Law Won."

Taking at seat in an unoccupied corner, I scanned the room pensively. What sort of gathering could this be? A poetry reading perhaps? A cookie exchange? But oh, Angelina, my gaze drifted overt to the foul stain of black cloth and white color.

A priest!

Surely, this was the dark dealing of the French Communion!

Try as I might to conceal my contempt, my outrage, my indignation, my curiosity, my fear, my wicked thoughts as that priest touched a finger to his throat and massaged the tender skin…Lucky perceived my anxiety and touched my shoulder.

"Catherine, are you all right? It is a little overwhelming, isn't it? Don't be concerned, girl. It's all well and good that these men consult us. Why, we fraternize with all of Paris! Who better to know the inner workings of the city's elite than us?"

I merely stared at her.

"Perhaps you've only met the lower classes. That's fine! Why," she leaned in closer to whisper, "I myself have had exchanges with quite a mysterious gent of late. He seems to be a true aristocrat, but he has peculiar tastes. Seems to fancy singers, as it were."

I went to respond, but the ringing of a large bell pulled my attention to the front of the conclave.

"Citizens! The time is approaching for us to take a stand! Who is with me?"

The crowd cheered enthusiastically. I lifted my hand and shook a tightly clenched fist in mock agreement, lest the papists discover me!

The tall man speaking from the front of the crowd continued as the cheers subsided.

"Father Félix has been kind enough to come here this evening to appraise us of the Church's stance on state of Paris today. Yes, Citizen Dupont, Father _is_ on the agenda. Line item 2. We voted last week to amend the agenda for today to include his treasurer's report…well, I'm sorry you couldn't make the meeting last week! I suppose treating your gout was more important than the Cause?"

Hushed whispers and sternly shaking heads informed me that indeed, gout was not a suitable excuse.

"Are you not concerned over all of this?" I asked Lucky.

"Of course I am. But it's necessary. Surely you realize that."

I shook my head. "But I don't want to be forced to eat it!" I pursed my lips to emphasize my point.

"Well, you'll make more money that way, but to each her own," said Lucky with a shrug. The man began to speak again before I could question her further.

"Citizens, let us take arms against a society that cares nothing for our plight! A city that would have us squirm about in squalor! A populace that—"

The door flew open, and all eyes turned towards a dashing young man in a rumpled suit, waving a tattered red flag.

"Marcus!" cried Lucky, and the crowd cheered again.

The man strode to the center of the room, and clapped the tall gentleman on the back.

"Friends, I have good news!" Marcus said, calming his breath and smiling brightly. "I do believe we can proceed with the barrica—"

Two sharp raps from a tiny window high on the wall disrupted the striking figure's speech.

"Oh, Eloise…" he murmured, waving his hand. I peered out to see a small dirty face pressed up against the glass.

"I love you Marcus!" she cried through the pane, then mouthed the words: _Don't be a stranger! Call me!_

Marcus rubbed his eyes. "Really, I'm not leading her on, René," he said to the tall man with a sigh. "I gave her the talk! 'It's not you, it's me…' and 'I don't want to spoil our friendship...' and 'Touch me in that way again and I'll scream like a rhesus…"

Dirty little Eloise backed away from the window, and Marcus' eyes fell on me. I looked away demurely.

"Where ever was I," wondered Marcus aloud.

"Wave your flag!" cried a man from the rear.

"March around a bit!" exclaimed one of the dark ladies in the corner

"SING!" hollered the group en masse.

"Yes!" cried Marcus. "When in doubt, sing!"

Oh Angelina! Surely these people cannot be evil if they _sing!_

Everyone was on their feet in an instant. Marcus leapt up onto a table, waving his red flag. I stood and waved mine as well as he began to sing out in a clear tenor:

_Do you hear the menfolk sing? _

_Singing of tune of hate and cryin'? _

_It is the melody of the dudes_

_Who will not live on bread and wine! _

Oh! What a passionate and delicious man! Angry, ready for violence…I was overcome with a strange sensation of exhilaration and friction!

He sang out again, this time only clearer and more perfect.

_Will you give your heart and soul, _

_So that our banner may stand tall? _

_Some will trip and some will prance_

_Will you stand up and say 'Go FRANCE'? _

_The blood of the whores_

_Will water the meadows of moors!_

Oh Angelina, I cannot imagine what possessed me to do so, but I simply could not help myself… I opened my mouth and joined my heavenly voice with his! I warbled and mewed, climbed every scale known to man and Cecil, until everyone in the room had fixed their gaze squarely on me. I descended the triumphant scale of virtuosity and clasped my hands to my chest innocently.

"You! Who are you?" asked Marcus breathlessly.

"Her name is Catherine," said Lucky, stepping to my side. "She's a working girl."

"Well, that's bloody obvious!" scoffed René.

"Quite a beautiful specimen, though," said Marcus. "No sign of scabies on that one…"

"Get up here, girl!" René demanded. I flushed and shuffled forward.

"Yes?" I said, then quickly shut my mouth against rogue wafers.

"You are a 'singer of the people,' I take it?" Marcus asked, gently smoothing a stray golden curl between his fingers.

"Oh yes, Monsieur. I am gainfully employed as such."

"By employment, you must mean riches of the spiritual kind, my dear," intoned the priest, Father Félix.

I clutched my arms around my body. "I suppose I gain a great deal of spiritual comfort from singing. But mostly I just get a few francs every week after I fall down and take it on the chest."

Oh Angelina, I certainly didn't want to admit to these people that I, the ingénue, was reduced to playing a dead bird. But how they gasped and cooed at my response!

"What area do you frequent, my dear?" begged Marcus, his hands working the red cloth into knots.

"The Opera Populaire-Garnier, Monsieur."

"Do you know of any other 'singers' there? People who are 'singing' about freedom and anarchy?"

Oh, I most certainly did not want to give up Patrick to the ne'er-do-wells! I shook my head vehemently. "I only do my job, then quietly…read."

"You can read?"

I nodded, then looked around at all the skeptical faces, and my bottom lip began to tremble.

"There, there, pet," said Marcus with a soothing tone. "You are very precious to us whether you can read or not, or what varieties of acts you choose to do to support yourself. That's why we are fighting, dear Catherine. Your chest should be free of… impediments! You should not have to use your…talents…. in order to eat!"

"But lots of people do. My Father did! He traveled all over Europe selling his talents to men and women all over the countryside!"

Marcus' eyes widened dramatically, and he began to cry softly. "You, dear heart, are the emblem of the cause. If you are near the Opera house, I shall make you my personal liaison to siphon information out of that den of gaudy expenditure."

He reached out his hand and drew me closer.

"Citizens," he cried, "let us proceed onward, grateful for Catherine's help, ever steady towards our goal, ready to fight the damnable ones on their own turf!"

The cheering deafened.

Marcus looked down at me and smiled. He reached in his pocket and withdrew a palm full of money. "For your hansom ride home. Surely we cannot have our newest spy squandering her meager earning from her flesh-peddling on transportation."

"Er, Monsieur, I don't know exactly what you mean?"

"All in good time. I shall be in contact with you soon. Vive le Revolution!"

I smiled weakly.

Dearest sister, did I just join a club?

With much confusion,

Catherine

_A/N: Lyrics from _Les Miserables_ are not mine; I only use them for my mischievous purposes._


	14. In which I bloom a bit

**A/N: Thanks so much to Wee Boat, aka Gondolier. She kicks it— funny style! **

1870, March 2.

Divine Angelina,

After the meeting ended, Marcus put me into the hansom with a kiss on the cheek and a swat to my rear.

"I'll send for you…"

The scuffling of floppy soled shoes on pavement caused Marcus to jerk away, his eyes wild. Eloise rounded around the corner, breathless and bloody.

"Move over," yelled Marcus, jumping into the handsome with me. "Driver! To the Opera Populaire-Garnier, _now!_"

The cab lurched and teetered; I held onto the seat and Marcus kept his gaze behind us out the window. "She is tenacious," he muttered.

"Is she in love with you?"

Marcus turned back to me and rolled his eyes. "No. She's in love with my brash and youthful idealism. That, and my impetuous, cocky air. And I have nice hair. Surely," he said, lowering his voice a notch, "you must understand how it is to be devoured by the gaze of the opposite sex?"

I shook my head. "Oh no, Monsieur. I would never let a man eat me."

Marcus smiled softly. "Are you so certain, Mademoiselle? I suppose in your line of work, the opportunity does not present itself often, but a girl of your beauty and veritable cleanliness could surely attract a spot of attention."

"I do receive a great deal of attention, Monsieur, that is true; though I do not go looking for it, I assure you!"

Marcus patted my hand. "You simply radiate 'talent,' my dear. Men can spot this easily."

I nodded. "Yes. My father spoke of my talent from the time I was a child. He said I was _much _better than my sister. My twin Angelina says the same."

How curious, Angelina, that Marcus said no more on the subject; he was content instead to chafe my hand and mutter, "damn vile aristocracy, see what they do to us! Turn fathers against daughters….sisters onto sisters…" At this he stopped. "Twin, did you say? Identical? Same measurements? Willingness to explore physical boundaries?"

Before I had a chance to answer, we arrived at the opera house.

"Thank you Marcus," I said, gathering my party favors from the club meeting.

"Good night, Catherine. Good luck to you. We'll contact you shortly to give you your assignment." Marcus closed the door and carriage sped off.

I looked up at the massive structure. It was late; all the petit rats were tucked away in their dormitory, the company members were at their flats, and M. Reyer was most likely passed out at his desk, perhaps with Madame Giry's feet on his lap.

I twisted the little red cap in my hands as I crept up to the massive door; impossibly, they were unlocked, as if someone was expecting me! I entered the grand foyer and tiptoed across the marble towards my dressing room. Slipping in, I crossed the room to light my lamp.

"And just where the hell have you been?"

I jumped and whirled about. "Cecil!"

"You have a momentary flash of courage, which, though irritating, was also unbelievably attractive. You storm off to wander the streets alone, and you return home in the company of a strange…"

The voice grew closer.

"…young…"

Cecil was practically on top of me now.

"MAN!"

I tried to step back, but a cold hand pressed firmly on my upper arm. "Tell me, my dear, did my paltry attempt at foreplay merely whet your appetite? Did I _prime _you for a midnight rendezvous? Did you play with my cucumber only to go have a tossed salad SOMEWHERE ELSE?"

Oh, Angelina, I tried to respond, by my voice caught in my throat!

In the darkness, I felt him back away, and he let loose a cry of rage from the bowels of Hell as I heard him pace around the room. I fled to my nightstand and fumbled for a match. As I ignited the wick, I saw Cecil, his arm raised above his head with my Compact Oxford English Dictionary in his grasp.

He pitched the book against the wall, then reached for a candlestick and hurled it at the ceiling. It "thunked" and fell to the ground. I submitted a small scream and began to plead with him. He did not even acknowledge me as he made his way to my sewing station.

"I HAVE GIVEN YOU EVERYTHING AND THIS IS HOW YOU REPAY ME! DENIED ME AND BET—" he kicked my sewing basket into the air, safety pins flying everywhere,"—RAYED MEEEE!"

"Oh Cecil, you are mistaken! I have done no—"

"I GAVE YOU MY MUSIC! WELL, I GAVE YOU SOME MUSIC AND SOME SINGING LESSONS AND I DEMANDED THINGS ON YOUR BEHALF! DOESN'T THAT EARN ME A 'FRIENDS WITH BENEFITS' OR SOMETHING DAMMIT?"

He threw my atomizer across the room. My hairbrush followed. Then a barrette, two croissants and a coffee mug that said "#1 Soprano."

But when he reached for my Precious Moments Unicorn figurine, I had had enough!

I grabbed my red handkerchief and waved it about his face.

"You stop this right now! I've done absolutely nothing whatsoever and you are just very, very grumpy at me for no reason!"

He did as I commanded! His eyes trained on the red bit of cloth, and a sinful grin emerged. "Red. You are wearing…Red. At last. So, is that the case?" he said, a new husky tone overwhelming his previously bitter carping.

I lowered my hand and looked at the cloth thoughtfully. "Well, yes, I suppose. I mean, I never thought I was really that sort, you know, but I just… well it feels right to be agreeable."

Without a word, he whisked around me to extinguish the light. Grasping my hand, he led me through the mirror and into the darkness, down towards the lake. We said nothing to each other, our gasps and breathy moaning the soundtrack to our descent. I felt that something was going to happen: something wild and mysterious, something frightening and yet pleasurable, something perfectly natural and yet mildly perverse.

Perhaps he wished for me to sing for him! I know how Cecil does adore my voice. And he is very conscientious about correcting my breathing… perhaps it is time for another lesson in the usefulness of breasts!

My suspicions were indeed confirmed, Angelina. As Cecil helped me into the boat, the vessel curiously gave way and I pitched forward. Thankfully, Cecil caught me by the chest, smiling as he righted me into the gondola. "Careful, my dear," he said softly.

"You are such a consummate teacher; no time wasted with you!" I chirped.

"You have so very much to learn…" he murmured, as he stepped in behind me and steered us towards his home.

He docked the gondola and stepped off to the shore. "Catherine," he said as he extended his hand to me, which I was delighted to accept.

Cecil led me into a small part of the alcove that I had not seen on my last venture down. It was a den of sorts, with an enormous bookshelf that spanned an entire wall, a chess set fashioned of what looked like ivory and ebony, and one oversized dark leather chair with a small pillow on the floor beside it.

"Shall we? It has occurred to me that overtures made to you must be rather… plain, or they simply do not register. You are preciously oblivious, and in part, I find that charming. I am also growing frustrated. Forty-some-odd years later, this is becoming something of a biological necessity, and given your overt sign to me tonight, I feel that we are moving along quite nicely."

Cecil let go of my hand and went to select a book.

"I also know that my voice has a peculiar quality on the female sex. The male sex too, but let's just let bygones be bygones, shall we? Instead, let us appreciate how your very body relaxes to the glittering timbre of my angelic voice."

"Oh, yes," I whispered, "like an angel. A rather naughty angel."

Cecil chuckled. "You are learning. Slowly. Tediously. But learning all the same. Come, sit and let me read to you. I think you shall find this endeavor to your liking."

He removed his coat and folded it precisely over the back of the divan; he sat in the great chair and beckoned me to come to him. I knelt by him quietly and waited for him to speak.

"This, my dear," he said grandly, opening the book, "is a very entertaining read."

"OH!" I exclaimed, "It's a picture book! I can follow along as you read! My dear Cecil, you are so wonderfully thoughtful!"

"You are the thoughtful one, darling," he said as I rested my chin on his thigh to get a better view.

"Chapter three of the 'Kama Sutra,' by Vatsyayana," he read melodiously. "'It is said by some that there is no fixed time or order between the embrace, the kiss, and the pressing or scratching with the nails or fingers…'—Bully for us, I dare say!— 'but that all these things should be done generally before se—'"

Cecil skimmed forward anxiously. "Aha! 'Vatsyayana, however, thinks that anything may take place at any time, for love does not care for time or order.' Brilliant!"

I let myself be carried away by his voice, hardly listening to the words themselves, but more delighting in the rise and fall of symphonic sound, and the rise of his—.

"Cecil," I whispered.

"Catherine," he echoed.

He stood.

I stood.

We both stepped forward, but I stepped on the hem of my dress (dazed as I was) and toppled into him.

"Yes!" he cheered, and lifted my chin up with one long hot finger.

"My dear, are you certain?"

"Yes Cecil. Teach me!"

He bent down, lowering his lips to mine, and I pulled back.

"You can give the power of your perfect voice to me by breathing into my mouth? Oh why haven't we done this before?" I cried joyously.

Cecil looked stunned. "I… I can't do _that_, Catherine. I thought you… you seemed to … you waved that red thing in front of my face and…"

I placed my hands on his shoulders, feeling the fine thread count of expensive cotton. His black wool dress pants, tented now at the midsection, were expertly tailored, falling perfectly over the instep of his fashionably outfitted foot.

I was, as always, resplendent; no worse for wear after the evening's adventure. I actually looked more beautiful than ever, as I could see my reflection in Cecil's adoring blue-green-gold-silver-flecked eyes.

He inhaled.

I twitched my lips.

He put his long-fingered hand on my waist.

I tilted my head back. My plump lips beckoned to his, saying, "Come down here and kiss me please."

Cecil reacted to that. "Did you just throw your voice?"

"No," I said, frowning.

"Okay then."

Over the span of approximately five minutes, our mouths grew closer. Hungry and yearning. Vibrant and fully puffed. Ready. Waiting. Growing impatient. Patient again. Irritated.

Our lips crashed together in a swell of passion, much like the swell of the sea in a storm, which is coincidentally what my eyes looked like at that very moment, though my lids were closed, of course.

A woman simply knows these things.

Neither of us moved for a moment. The tip of his tongue darted out to trace the seam of my lips. Confused, I returned the gesture. Cecil pulled away slightly, arching his eyebrow.

His hand snaked around my back and pulled me to him sharply. I gasped, and he pressed his open mouth to mine.

Angelina, all the stories Father used to tell us could never have prepared me for this! Heaven is not singing— heaven is kissing! With tongues!

Tongues met each other in a silent duet. Then a noisy pas de deux. Then a bombastic match between sumo wrestlers, each vying for control, but neither one ready to concede defeat!

I explored his mouth, and he mine. I felt his uvula, and he felt mine. I thought I might gag at one point, but Cecil cupped my bottom and pulled me closer: suddenly, I was right as rain.

My knees weakened, and I felt my head grow hazy. Cecil noticed this, and gently released my mouth from his delicious assault.

"You… you…" I gasped for air. "You taste like…"

"Heaven?"

"No. Like rum. And clove cigarettes."

Cecil blanched. "We all have our vices."

"I like your vices."

"You do?"

"Yes, I think I do."

Cradling me in his arms, Cecil picked me up and took me to the swan bed. Setting me down, he gestured to the armoire. "There is a selection of nightclothes in there. Choose whatever pleases you. Not what you think would please me. There will be time for that later."

He turned to leave, then stopped abruptly.

"Oh, by the by… the Bal Masque is tomorrow night. The managers decided to throw one again; testing their luck, I suppose. I took the liberty of procuring you a costume complementary to mine, so that everyone will know implicitly that we are in fact a couple, though we shall not overtly advertise such scandal. I'll be sure to arrive late, catch you unawares—as if you doubted I'd be there! —and then we can play a spot of 'lyrical sexual tension' before taking a turn around the dance floor."

He studied me for a second. "I know this seems sudden, but you must remember that at the Opera Populaire-Garnier, the most minute details take days to explain away while cataclysmic events and character-building plot sequences get lost in the mire.

"And with that, I bid you good night. I'm going to go… finish my reading…"

I changed into a lovely silk nightgown and flopped myself onto the bed. A kiss… a Ball…Cecil.

Oh what shall I ever do with Patrick and Marcus?

Your ever-bewildered sister,

Catherine


	15. In which I costume

**A/N Please, please forgive my horrific and wholly inexcusable delay in writing and posting this chapter. Cecil and I have been arguing of late, and I simply couldn't get him to submit to my will. Those masked geniuses, I tell you… pains in the tush! In any case, I shall endeavor to never go so long without an update. Many thanks to Elektra for spanktacular beta services!**

1870, March 3.

Delectable Angelina,

This morning, I awoke to the sweet clanging of the little monkey alarm clock, my cheeks flushed after a particularly enticing dream featuring Cecil, myself and an assortment of musical instruments.

Cecil appeared in the doorway, his hair disheveled and his normally immaculate evening wear suspiciously askew, but my delicate sensibilities were allayed when he told me of his working late into the night on our costumes. As well as a new concerto, an oil painting of a fruit basket still life, and his novel ("a work in progress," he hurriedly assured me, "though fraught with middle-class anxieties and a spot of political intrigue).

After gauging my hunger level, he left me to dress myself in one of the many fineries he had no doubt bought for me in anticipation of our sleepover. Oh Angelina, he is such a prepared man!

When I emerged, we feasted on chicken tenders with a ranch dipping sauce, pepper jack cheese with crackers, and massive hunks of sourdough bread. Cecil showed me parts of his new composition and asked for my opinion.

"Tell me, my dear, do you think I could have the arpeggio here? Or should the thrilling climax happen…" he skimmed forward through the work, "here? I know you have little musical background, and are really no more than a pretty body and unfathomably perfect voice rolled up into one, but surely you of all people can meaningfully contribute to that which is my life's work? Despite the fact that you are a woman, of course. Who am I to judge so harshly against the fairer sex, who really ought to simply burn their corsets and begin campaigning for their rights immediately?"

He truly is a man of his time!

At length, we set back for my dressing room. Cecil deployed the spring device and the mirror slid to grant us entrance. He ushered me in gently, then followed behind to place a small parcel on my bed. Turning to me, he caught me in his strong embrace and lowered his mouth to my ear.

"The pleasure of your company has enflamed me beyond reason. As much as I would like to stay here and dress you, then undress you, then bathe you, towel you off, sully you, bathe you again, sprinkle honey powder all over you and make you my dinner, then bathe you a third time (possibly causing madness by this point) and finally dress you for the Bal Masque tonight, I fear I must leave you to your own sensual devices for the time being."

With that, he kissed my neck, then raised his head and languorously kissed my mouth, taking time to examine me for cavities. Cecil released me, kissed the tip of my nose then swatted my rear for good measure as he disappeared behind the mirror, calling out, "Oh, do wear a bit of perfume tonight, particularly behind your knees…"

I hurried to the package and began to open it excitedly. Oh sister! Cecil had crafted me a costume out of the finest materials! I immediately set about my toilet so that I might be fresh as a new spring day, or a rose in bloom, or perhaps cold crisp cucumber, ripe and ready to burst!

That night, bedazzled, bejeweled and bemused beyond belief, I touched my décolletage once again with the lavender and gardenia perfume and set off for the grand foyer.

Angelina, it was a sight to behold! It was as if all of Paris had come out for the grand fete! I caught sight of Lissy immediately: she was resplendent in hues of deep greens, blues and golds as a beautifully bound Peacock. She snapped her fan closed as I approached and smiled warmly.

"Catherine! I'm so glad to see you! We were terribly worried about you," she said. "What are you wearing?"

I glanced down and picked at my costume inelegantly. "I'm the Black Cat," I said, my head held up high.

"You're very… tightly clad."

"Cecil said it highlighted my assets in a most contemporary way!"

"Oh, most certainly. You assets are very uplifted," Lissy replied, one eyebrow arching. "Could I get you a wrap or something?"

"These types of bodysuits are very fashionable, Lissy!"

"Can you even manage undergarments under that?"

We were thankfully interrupted by a bouncing Meg Giry, who was costumed as an angel with a wire halo suspended over her golden curls. "I'm an angel!" she cried. "Maybe this year I'll get an angel to sing to me and spirit me away and do all sorts of unspeakable things to me no one will ever suspect and thus my status as 'Virgin Material' will be upheld!"

I winced at her words, for they cut so very close to my own heart. Could she possibly suspect that my Angel, my Cherub, my Carnal Cucumber had kissed me so passionately as to divest me of my honor?

"And speak of the Devil… literally," she intoned.

Christine and Raoul were standing on the great staircase, a mockery of all I held dear. She, a scandalous harlot in a two piece slave girl costume that recalled the rosy hours of some Persian fairytale, and he, a sultan I supposed, corpulent and craggy with a fake beard and turban.

Ghastly, my twin! I was appalled, and immediately turned my head as the man announced them and they sashayed themselves onto the dance floor. Thankfully, my mask afforded me some measure of cover, and they took no note of me as they whirled their rotund figures to the lively song.

Just as I began to make my way over to the punch bowl, past several half naked men painted red and wearing fig leaves, a strong hand grasped my arm and pulled me back. I stiffened as the voice spoke low in my ear.

"I am so glad to see you here, Catherine. I was hoping you would take this opportunity to undermine this grotesque bourgeois display."

I turned quickly to see Marcus, dressed as a revolutionary. "You… didn't costume?"

"Oh, I am costumed, my pet. Dressed for a disaster. Ready for a revolt. Let's feed their heads to Madame Guillotine! Let's—"

"Get some champagne!" I chimed in, and let him lead me to the refreshment table. "I'm terribly thirsty!"

"Thirsty for blood," he muttered as he handed me a glass. "Now really, Catherine, you must keep your wits about you tonight. This costume is… well, it's appropriate for your line of work, to be sure, but it's rather…titillating."

"You like it?"

"I… yes. Of course. I'll like it much more later, after I've committed capital murder, but right now it is distracting."

I pouted delicately.

"Catherine, someone is approaching with intent. I will find you later to apprise you of the plan." He kissed my hand swiftly and scurried away just as I heard Patrick's booming tenor.

"Ma petit ange! Wherever have you been? I was so hoping to escort you this evening and later on as well!"

I turned to see Patrick's blinding smile. "Monsieur, you are too kind."

"May I get you a piece of cake? Some cheese? Some bread?"

"Oh no," I demurred. "I couldn't possibly fit in my costume if I eat one more bite!"

His eyes darkened with some unspeakable hunger, ready to break free if I but gave the swarthy signal!

"I could fit in you just fine."

I gasped. "Good sir! There is only room in this costume for one! And that one is me! I am the one!" Huffing preciously, I stamped my foot and made to leave his vile presence when he pulled me back gently.

"Oh Catherine, be still. I meant only that we fit together so very well. You, an immensely talented Number One Soprano. Me, a rakishly handsome aristocrat who sings on pitch - unlike devilish suitors - and who loves you as no other man or fiend possibly could!"

Oh sister, I felt my heart swell. Could he mean these sweet sentiments? Was he truly my size? Would we perfectly fit together in a timeless dance?

He reached his hand out for me and I granted him my petal soft fingers. Patrick pulled me into a rousing waltz, causing everyone to stop, stare, admire, softly applaud, become jealous, and finally have to fight the urge to break out into song.

I caught Christine's haggard glare out of the corner of my eye, but I refused to let her mar this moment of glory for me. I whirled and spun like a goddess, naked in the surf, as my tail whipped around me, forever spanking Patrick.

The music slowed, and Patrick seemed to move in ever so slowly to claim my lips for his own, to plant the crest of his family upon my mouth as a sign of land rights…

The room darkened.

The music stirred to a halt.

People stopped breathing.

Someone passed out.

Cecil stood at the top of the stairs.

He was fearsome and fearless.

He was dressed in a chicken suit.

Yours,

Catherine.


	16. In which I party

**A/N: Special thanks to phantomy-cookies for extraordinary beta services and general inspirational wonderment.**

1870, March 3.

Darling Angelina,

I cannot describe to you my feelings as I watched Cecil, so majestic, so dark, so undeniably handsome and fresh, standing at the top of the grand staircase. Of course everyone had turned to watch him, even the naked silver-painted men costumed as Roman gladiators, who seemed to stiffen and moan at the very sight of him! I confess, my womb-mate, that I could not blame them. Why, one actually had to move his warrior's staff in front of his person just to hold himself up! I too found my knees weak, my stomach aflutter with the new sensations I had only recently become aware of… I was lost, hopeless lost in his fiery grey-green-blue-gold flecked gaze of passion and apoplexy.

No one moved, not even that sniveling hag we used to call "Ugly Witch Sister from the Bowels of Hell." She remained rooted in her spot, her chest heaving as only her chest can do. The corpulent Compte de Chagny twitched, however, and I was not in the least bit surprised when a wet spot emerged on his trousers.

Incontinent fool!

My Cecil took in the scene with regal splendor, particularly for a chicken. Only his eyes moved as he surveyed the crowd, and I hoped against hope that he would see me, outfitted in his costume, and rush forth to ravish me until I begged him to stop, then never to stop, then to stop and start quickly, then to thrust and roll like a wildebeest on the Saharan desert…

But what can I know of such powerful emotions, precious twin?

After what seemed a lifetime, but in reality was probably only two moments of awkward silence, Meg began to bounce again.

"I am an angel! I'm the Angel of Music! I am, I am! I'm here, the Phantom of the—"

Madame Giry's cane connected with Meg's head, crushing her little halo. Cecil seemed nonplussed.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," he purred, before lifting his chin slightly. "And the de Chagnys."

Christine's bottom lip trembled.

"Oh no no, surely I haven't disrupted your wonderful little party, have I?"

Cecil took one step down the stairs.

"Squeak"

His eyes widened.

He stepped again.

"Squeak"

"Son of a—"

"Angel!" cried Christine, extending her sausage-like arms out to Cecil. I grimaced at her ignorance.

"Chicken!" I sang with pure enthusiasm and a touch of desire.

"_Raven_," hissed Lissy, who had moved to stand behind me. "He's costumed as the Raven. From Poe?"

"I knew that," I grumbled.

Cecil did not let his gaze waver from Christine, whose arms had begun to jiggle slightly as her atrophied muscles fought to keep her desperation evident.

"What in the name of God are you doing here?" he said haltingly. I knew it took great effort for him not to sing, as was his wont to do in very stressful, emotional encounters.

"Angel of Music, guide and guardian, grant to me your GLORY!"

"Oh, you want the glory now, do you? I'll glorify you until you're blind." Cecil reached his hands to his belt. I was frozen, half wanting to be gloried and half not wanting anyone else to be gloried along with me.

He instead produced a small leather-bound book, which he threw at Christine's head. "You left that in my home. I took the liberty of reading it. I particularly liked the part that read—oh how did it go—'Dear Diary, I don't want anybody else. When I think about the Angel of Music I touch my—"

"That was private!" she wailed.

"Not really," Meg chirped. "I mean, we were all there in that crowed dormitory. Why, little Jammes slipped and broke her leg in rehearsal that one time because she was so exhausted. Exhausted because none of us could sleep what with all of that moaning and writhing night after night. Truly M. Phantom, we all just wished you'd materialize and take care of her. For the good of the opera, really."

"Thank you Meg. That was… informative." Cecil squeaked down another step. Christine stepped closer to him and began to sing.

_Strumming my pain with his fingers…_

_Singing my life with his words…_

Killing me softly with his song 

_Killing me softly with his song_

_Telling my whole life with his words_

_Killing me softly, with his—_

"I never strummed you with my fingers."

"What do you call the business on the bridge?"

"That was child's play."

Christine shuddered.

Cecil shrugged and offered the following:

_All that time I was searching, with nowhere to run to, it started me thinking, _

_Wondering what I could make of my life, and who'd be waiting. _

_Asking all kinds of questions, to myself, but never finding the answers. _

_Crying at the top of my voice, and no one listening. _

_All this time, I still remember everything you said _

_There's so much you promised, how could I ever forget._

"I listened, Angel!"

Meg raised her hand and waved it earnestly. "I'm an angel," she whispered vigorously.

"You must hear out of your breasts, Christine, because you did not catch on."

I certainly hope Cecil wasn't teaching Christine out of the same tutor's manual as mine!

"How can you say these things to me?" she sobbed. "I lo—" She looked around. Raoul was exhaustedly camped out on the floor, his legs stuck out in front of him, sweat dripping off of his pasty brow.

Christine pulled her wedding ring off and let it drop as she sang:

_These wounds won't seem to heal _

_This pain is just too real _

_There's just too much that time cannot erase _

_When you cried I'd wipe away all of your tears_

"I only cried _once_," he spat. "And honestly, I had good reason to. Let's get you a mint next time, hmm?"

Christine paled, cupped her mouth and blew into her hand. "You unseasoned man. I smell like chocolate!"

"Is that why the Compte de Chagny is unable to stand for long periods of time?"

Christine cleared her throat and continued:

_When you'd scream I'd fight away all of your fears _

_And I held your hand through all of these years _

_But you still have _

_All of me_.

"Quite a lot of you to have at once, don't you think? Really Christine… I'm done with this. You made your choice." He paused, and looked at me with a gaze so hot I thought my costume must have burned off in one _whoosh. _"And I've made mine. Come to me, my Angel."

As I stepped forward I was unceremoniously knocked over by a bounding Meg. "Finally someone recognizes that I'm the Angel here!" Cecil held up one gloved hand. "Ah ah. Take two steps back. Good girl. Hold very still. Catherine, come." He snickered to himself ungraciously.

I started to walk again, seemingly in a trance, when Patrick's strong hand grasped my arm. "Like hell," he hissed.

"I must go to him," I said softly. "He needs me. Like the desert needs the rain."

"If it rained in the desert, it would cease being a desert."

"What are you suggesting, Monsieur? That I am too wet for Cecil?"

Cecil's eyes grew impossibly wide and he withdrew his saber. "That, my dear, could not possibly be the case. Get over here now!"

I ran to him and stood before him shyly.

"I forgot a corsage."

"That is alright," I whispered.

I cast a glance around the fete: the gentlemen had moved to one side and the ladies to another. A few shabbily dressed men hung about the punch bowl. A few of the women huddled together, pointing and gossiping.

"Did you want to…"

"What?" I answered brightly.

"You know," he mumbled, lowering his head a little. His beak nearly clipped me in the nose.

"I don't."

M. Reyer began to conduct the orchestra in a lively waltz. Cecil took my hand, the black feathers of his costume tickling my skin. "Do you want to dance? If not, that's fine. I don't care. I just thought you might want to. But we can just go get punch or something. Really."

"Oh Cecil, I'd love to! I didn't know you knew how to dance."

He took me into his embrace and we began to move like seasoned professionals.

"I'm surprisingly competent in nearly all the seductive and romantic arts. Of course I'll stumble a bit here and there just to reinforce the idea that I've had absolutely no contact with the human race, let alone the female sect, and also to make myself just _that_ more charming as I lay my heart bare for you in an attempt to both woo you and heal my tortured spirit."

"You stepped on my foot."

"But doesn't that make me precious?"

I smiled at him as we spun. "Oh yes, very!"

At the end of the song, we all clapped, and Cecil offered to get me a drink. Marcus came rushing up to me, tugging me into a corner of the room. "Good work, my beauty! You _are _skilled! That man… he must be part of the inner circle to be able to silence a room so. And he is aware of your talents—that much is obvious. Catherine, you will lead our side to victory, I know it! And then," he lowered his lips to my hand, "perhaps you will allow me to take you away from this wretched life."

"It really isn't a wretched life," I countered. "Why, that man I was dancing with has taught me everything I know! I hope one day to entertain all of Paris!"

Marcus paled. "You ambition is… impressive. Perhaps… you will entertain me tonight?"

"Oh no, I cannot. I must get back to my dance partner. He'll wonder where I am."

I rushed back to find Cecil sipping from a crystal cup. "Someone spiked the punch," he murmured as he passed on to me. "Sip slowly, but enjoy the ride."

Meg bounced over to me like a tiny white bosomy rabbit sent from Heaven.

"You are an angel. This we know," said Cecil absentmindedly.

Meg blushed. "Thank you!" she said breathlessly. "But that wasn't what I came to say. Catherine," Meg said with abrupt severity, "I need you to go with me to the bathroom."

"Why?"

"Because," she said, setting her jaw and twitching her head in the direction of the ladies' powder room.

"But I don't have to—"

"We'll be right back, M. Phantom!" Meg hustled me along. "Catherine, Christine is crying. She's hysterical! Maman is trying to get her back in her dress… but we thought maybe you could talk to her, since you are her sister."

"I doubt I could be of much assistance to her. I imagine she hates me."

"Yes, well, we thought about that too. Perhaps if you let her hit you about the face once or twice, she'd stop shrieking."

I stepped inside the well-appointed room to see Christine sprawled on the floor next to the commode. "Sister, really… this is undignified."

"Undignified!" she bellowed. "What is 'undignified' is my own flesh and blood betraying me with my good genius!"

"He's not yours anymore, Christine. He's _my_ tutor now. Mine. My Cherub of Crooning."

The door flew open suddenly and a beleaguered Lissy ran in. "Women, we have a problem."

"What's wrong?"

"The men. Are in. Some dispute."

I stepped over Christine and hurried to the grand foyer to see Marcus with his gun trained on Cecil, Cecil with his gun trained on Patrick, Patrick with his gun trained on Lucky McTrollop, Mademoiselle McTrollop with her gun trained on Raoul… who was holding a sword in shaky hands and had obviously wet himself once again.

Yours in distress,

Catherine

_A/N: Lyrics from Roberta Flack's "Killing Me Softly," Phil Collins' "In Too Deep," and Evanescence's "My Immortal" used without permission, not for profit, and only for parody. _


	17. A Budsy Christmas: How Cecil Stole Noël

**A/N: This is a little holiday present from me to you. Thank you everyone for reading and reviewing and just generally being lovely people. Best wishes for a happy holiday and a wonderful New Year.**

This is Buds-verse but absolutely NOT part of the regular story. Just a little Budsian diversion in honor of all the Holiday!Phics that creep up this time o' year.

18--, Christmas Eve.

Cecil selected a book from the library and beckoned me to kneel before him, which I did very willingly.

"Since you have been such a diligent student— in all areas— I thought perhaps I might shake off my dark mood and indulge for a evening in the spirit of Joyeux Noël. I know it is utterly out of character for me to embrace this Christian festival, but I find that at this time of year, especially given your heaving bosom, a strange sense of charity and mirth fills my soul. Either that, or I become preciously grumpy, forcing you pat my head (and other parts of me if I am so lucky!) in order to bring forth in me the True and Utterly Unrealistic Spirit of the Season."

I smiled and patted his thigh.

"Either way, I am so pleased you saw fit to decorate your beautiful home with such an enormous Christmas tree! Sadly, we could never afford such fineries when I was a child."

Cecil smiled and stroked my cheek. "I hope the size pleases you."

"Oh yes! Most definitely! And what beautiful sparkly balls!"

"Why thank you."

"The Christmas tree Father would haul out for us was never so well kept."

"You were on the road a lot. Maintenance is difficult."

"His Fir was never so well-groomed."

"Well, you were just a child. I'm sure he did his best by you."

I sighed. "Perhaps. But oh Cecil, my Cherub, you have outdone yourself!"

"Wait until I give you your present."

"But first you will read to me?"

"Of course, my darling girl."

I rested my head on his thigh as he began to read:

"'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house,  
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.'"

"Like the _petit rats_?"

"The very same. Though I suspect Madame Giry had to slip something into Meg's hot cider to calm that one down."

"Do you think Meg is an angel?"

"I think Meg suffered too many sleepless nights as a child. Now hush and listen."

"'The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,  
In hopes that Père Noel soon would be there.

"The rats were nestled all snug in their beds,  
While visions of "Masked Men of Fondling and Singing" danced in their heads.  
Catherine in her chemise, and I in… nothing at all,  
Cuddled in the swan bed for a midnight free-for-all.

"When out on the lake there occurred such a splash,  
I sprang from the bed and a candle went "crash!"  
Grabbing my robe, I leapt past the monkey,  
I turned back and said, "I bet it's Firmin's flunky!"

"The lake gave off a strange blue-ish sheen,  
And I raised up the lasso, careful not to be seen.  
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,  
But a rotund little man, his eyes filled with tears.

"I moved not a muscle, for I knew it was true,  
The man in the gondola must be M. Leroux!  
He had trouble steering as others rowed in the frame.  
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

"'Now Susan! Now, Becky! Now, Forsythe and Wolf!  
On, Nancy! On, Sam! On Bair! What the— OOF!  
Somebody help me! I fell on my rear!  
Get me back up or you'll have no careers!'

"As the crew rowed mightily past even the Siren,  
I knew for a fact that the Garnier wasn't hiring.  
So why was Leroux coming down to my Lair,  
To muck up my evening with my Lady Fair?

"And then, in an instant, the boat landed on the shore.  
I readied the lasso for what was in store.  
As I lifted my arm, steady to let my rope fly,  
In through the door came Leroux with a sigh.

"He was dressed all in black, from his head to his toes,  
And in one hand, the absinthe, in the other, a rose.  
A bundle of books he had flung on his back,  
And he laid them all out as he unloaded his sack.

"His eyes-how dilated! His cheeks, overfed!  
His forehead, all sweaty, his nose large and red!  
His fat little body lumbered toward the great chair,  
And he looked about the room as he recited the dare.

"'Now Susan we know yours is considered the sequel,  
And perhaps we can say that these others can't equal.  
But honestly woman, you have them get nude!  
As if I wouldn't care! Really, how rude!

"'Becky…' he began, then yawned instead.  
'You, my dear, are not right in the head.  
These others have tried to get into HIS head.  
But mostly you've only gotten Erik in bed.

"'Does he HAVE to have sex,' the man cried with distress!  
'Does Christine always have to take off her dress?'  
'Hell YES,' I so very much wanted to bellow.  
When out from the shadows stepped a short little fellow.

"'Beg your pardon, Leroux,' he said with some cheer.  
'No one's naked in my version,' he said without fear.  
Leroux leapt from his seat: "It was fine before YOU!.  
_Music of the Night_ my ass! And damn Crawford too!"

They fought like animals; I had to step in.  
I cried, 'What the hell are you doing in my Den of Sin?'  
Both stopped and looked up and I heard a great gasp,  
'You aren't my Phantom! You only have half a mask!'

"'I know I know,' I said very gently,  
'But you know I've gone handsome and I drive a Bentley.'  
M. Leroux covered his face and sobbed with great spite.  
'And I'd appreciate you leaving on this cold winter's night.

"'I'm entertaining a lady.' They all stared at me.  
'Christine?' 'Meg?' 'Or someone else entirely?'  
'Yes, this is a new girl, one bred straight from fiction.  
'So get out of my house so I can back to some friction!'

"They trudged back to the boat, and I watched as they rowed.  
M. Leroux look despondent; I sat back and crowed.  
'I'm not canon based, but I'm feeling alright,  
'A _Joyeux Noël_ to all, and to all a good night!'

Cecil closed the book, and I crawled up into his lap. "That… oh that was a lovely story!" I whispered, and kissed his cheek softly. He wrapped his arms around me and drew me in for a kiss before pulling back and licking the tip of my nose.

"Shall we adjourn to the bedroom for you to open the package?"

Yours always,  
Catherine

_A/N: "Twas the Night Before Christmas" by Clement Clarke Moore is not mine and no cash is made off this crazy. Sadly enough, crazy don't pay.___


	18. In which I am brave

**A/N: Thank you to phantomy-cookies for superior betaing, and to both she and Wee Boat for brainstorming spanktacularness.**

1870, March 4,

Delectable Angelina,

My heart fairly stopped as I rushed out of the ladies' powder room to see my darling Cecil engaged in this sort of desperate behavior. Certainly he looked unmistakably dashing, but also quite a bit uneasy, as if he was thoroughly uninterested in playing "Whose gun in bigger?" with my potential paramours. Oh, if Cecil could only know that his enormous, jewel-encrusted gun with the mother of pearl inlay and the inscription, _Il fondra dans votre bouche, pas dans des vos mains_, had easily caught my eye and won my heart; how could I deny his truly spectacular piece?

I prayed fervently that I might be able to thwart the violence at hand so that I might get _my_ hands on that magnificent specimen.

But what could I do?

I thought of Father, and how he always encouraged me to use my very person in pursuit of the greater good… oh sister, remember how we could raise Father out of his black moods by singing or performing "The Dance of the Seven Veils"? If this wasn't a dark and dangerous situation, I certainly don't know what was. I rushed forward towards the circle.

"Catherine, wait!" Lissy cried, grabbing my tail and yanking me back. "You'll only make things worse, running in there!"

"I must. I have no choice! I must protect him!"

"Protect _him_? Which "him" do you mean, exactly?"

Oh sister, I felt bewildered, confused, and slightly aroused by her question. Patrick's long, thin pistol was handsome, though a bit unimpressive. Marcus' fat revolver no doubt held quite a bit of kick. But I knew, in my heart, whose instrument of power I longed to have in my possession.

Turning to her, I lifted my chin in challenge. "There is only one firearm fit for my holder," I cried, and with that, I flung myself into the fray.

"Stop this madness!" My arms stretched wide, I closed my eyes to await the onslaught of bullets that must surely have been meant for Cecil but that I would gladly and whole-heartedly accept. "I cannot allow any harm to come to this man. I would give him my soul, and my thighs, willingly. Unlike my deceitful sister, I recognize true beauty when I see it. I also recognize a thrilling piece of hardware when it is brandished before me. Take me, my Cherub! Your cherub is ready to obey in any way that doesn't defy gravity, and even then I shall attempt any feat you wish, within reason— or really, beyond reason, so long as we have some wine first!"

The silence that met my declaration confused me, yet I imagined I could feel Cecil's heat so near my flesh. I wondered if he was just about to lean in to kiss me. I thought perhaps I should lean forward, or present my bosom more prominently, or perhaps press my hips to his, just to let them say "Bonjour!"

"Catherine, I believe you mean to be over here…"

My eyes fluttered open, and I looked up into the eyes of one of the naked silver-painted men costumed as Roman gladiators. "Oh, Georges," I stammered. "I should be going now." I turned to see Cecil's eyes blazing with fury. Or desire. Or possibly a mixture of the two, with a spot of sadness glazing over them.

"What's the meaning of all this?" said Patrick. "Surely you don't mean to say that you are interested in this… this…"

"Dirty aristocrat?" suggested Marcus.

"Dodgy bastard?" sneered Lucky.

"Murderer?" offered Raoul.

Everyone fixed a gaze on Raoul, as all the guns were slowly lowered. "Well," started Lucky, "some would argue that that's a strong term, monsieur."

"After all, isn't what he did really more like self-defense?" Marcus said, shrugging. "I mean, who are we to judge?"

"He did only throw cherries and cheese cubes at me. No fireballs or anything of that sort. Irritating. But not murderous. That's rather harsh," said Patrick, with a frown.

Raoul began trembling again, this time in anger I think, as his beady little eyes narrowed. "What's gotten into you people!" He whirled around, surprisingly well for a fat man, and gestured to a half-naked Christine with his very flimsy sword. "Don't you remember Buquet?"

"Skeevy pervert," said Meg as she played with her halo. "He used to peek in on us when we were changing out of our costumes and having tickle fights. M. Phantom is a noble gentleman, and simply couldn't tolerate such behavior out of the male crew members." She winked at Cecil, then went to stand near Mademoiselle McTrollop. She whispered into the tense woman's ear, "I'm still an angel."

"But, but," sputtered Raoul ignominiously. "He killed Piangi too!"

"How can you be sure?" asked Christine miserably. "No one actually saw him do it. We were all very busy, singing and rubbing fruit on our bodies. _I _didn't see Piangi's murder. Why for all we know, M. Phantom was trying to simply knock him out!"

"In an effort to knock you—"

"Raoul!"

I became incensed. "How dare you speak of my Cherub this way! He's loving and giving… so very giving… he really is a giver, not a taker. A lover, not a fighter. A ravisher and a singer and an architect! Sometimes he favors origami, or making little dolls out of clay that look like my sister only to smash them with a riding crop… but is all very harmless! Just a bit of… anxiety! Nothing psychotic in pretending to be a ghost or an angel or perhaps accidentally killing people when it suits you best!"

I stepped in front of Cecil now, my courage at full mast—much like Cecil, to be truthful. "You, M. le Compte, are a dastardly and cowardly boy-creature who was repeatedly favored the fashions of high society and the bowels of Paris' filthiest brothels and who has the gall to denounce the studious and virtuous lives of performing artists!"

I heard Cecil shift behind me as he murmured, "Well, I wouldn't go so far as studious and virtuous."

"I have never denounced the Opera! I was a patron! I always put my money where my mouth—"

"RAOUL!"

"You act so brave. You are nothing!" My eyes narrowed as I dared to proceed forward. "You are nothing… but a fop."

Lissy gasped. "Catherine… he really isn't…. you're taking this to far! Didn't you read any of your Oxford English Dictionary: The Very Condensed Version for Women and Pets? 'Fop' doesn't mean "3rd part of the Love Triangle for whom the audience has little sympathy"!

I started to respond, but Raoul had other ideas for educating me. His terribly limp sword sliced forward, and cut me on my left side from cheek to knee! I screamed, clasping a hand to my face and simultaneously attempting to keep my cat costume together over my creamy and undiscovered body. Meg fainted straight into Lucky's waiting arms, and Christine wailed as Cecil scooped me up into his strong embrace. I limply let my head fall into the crook of his neck.

"You," he hissed at Raoul, "had better hope this wound isn't severe. You thought the hanging bit was bad? I'll dismantle you from the inside out this time." To the managers, he said, "Lovely party as always. You two certainly ought to revise your guest list."

He carried me up the stairs, stomped twice, and we began falling downwards! I clung to him, terrified to breathe, until we suddenly hit the icy water with a splash.

"Oh bloody hell the boat moved!"

I trembled violently as Cecil swung my legs around his waist like I was a small child. He waded out and grabbed hold of the gondola. "Alright, one, two, mmmmf!" He tossed me into to boat gracelessly and then climbed aboard himself. His feathers were all stuck together, and he bent down to retrieve his pole. "Mind holding that, my Cherub?" he said, tossing the pistol to me.

"Oh Cecil, I've wanted to touch it all night!"

"Of course you have, my dear."

With that he paddled onward, to his beautiful secret home. I gingerly touched my face, and Cecil "tsked" me. "Don't do that," he chided. "I'll care for you."

I looked up at him wearily. "I know that. You always have."

"Have I?"

"Yes," I whispered breathlessly. "I was a fool not to see it before."

"Well, you are rather dimwitted, in a wholly attractive way of course, but I'm not sure how very much I've actually done for you that wasn't really centered on gains for myself."

I listened, but only partly, having become mesmerized by the rhythm of the pole plunging into the water. It was intoxicating, and Cecil seemed to recognize the hypnotic effects it was having on my person. We reached his home in no time, and he helped me out of the boat. "Let me tend to this cut," he said softly, wrapping me in a spare cloak of his.

"You should change—you're soaking wet!"

Cecil smirked. "So are you, I hope."

I picked at my costume ingloriously. "Yes, I'm a mess."

"Not so my dear. Sit down on the divan."

I obeyed him, and he returned with a small kit. He reached up and removed his Raven's head and set it on the floor beside us. Cecil turned my face so that my hideously marred cheek was before him. "Ah, just a scratch," he sighed, touching a bit of ointment onto my skin. I closed my eyes under his ministrations.

"Then it is not a permanent disfigurement?"

Cecil removed his hand from my cheek and stared at me with an indescribable look on his face.

"No doubt this will heal perfectly in a days time, with the way time works in this sphere," he said shortly. "The inept comte was far more successful with splitting your costume down the seam."

I gaped and wrapped the blanket tighter.

"Why don't we both go change? And then I think… you should go to bed." Cecil touched my neck softly. "You've had an eventful night, and a nasty scratch as a party favor." I nodded and stood to retire to my room. He bowed lightly and retreated.

Perusing through my beautiful wardrobe that Cecil had assembled, I chose a scarlet red nightgown and robe and donned it quickly, my cat suit summarily forgotten on the floor. I let loose my hair, and fluffed it so that it framed my face wildly yet angelically. I did not bother to step into my slippers, and simply padded barefoot back into the sitting area, where Cecil had left me not thirty minutes before.

And there I saw him. Seated by the fire. Dressed in what looked like silk pajamas and a long exotic robe, holding a book in his hands, thumbing leisurely through the pages. He did not look at me, but merely said, "I believe I sent you to bed."

"You didn't think I'd obey you like a small child, did you?"

He turned slightly to look at me. "Actually, I did. But I hoped perhaps that you wouldn't." He stood slowly, setting the book down in the chair.

"Are you certain?"

His hips twitched.

My eyes widened.

My bosoms trembled.

Cecil smirked.

Angelina, I could not believe what came out of my mouth next.

All my love,

Catherine


	19. In which I bloom

**A/N: Alright. If this phic was rated M for a reason, this is it. I mean, it's not like it's been virginal as a Mary-Sue up until now, but… well… you've been warned. Thank you to phantomy-cookies for beta-ing this insanity.**

1870, March 5.

Tingling Angelina,

As I stood before Cecil, so many thoughts raced through my head:

_I should like to be kissed until the wind is knocked out of me._

_This nightgown is not flimsy or sheer enough! _

_I bet that armchair is sturdy..._

But alas, my dear sister, only one was expressed from my plump lips.

"Father enjoyed hand-puppets and melted wax!"

Cecil's one perfect eyebrow arched. "Come again?"

I faltered. "I… what I mean to say is… you want me to come?"

He smirked with a hard look in his eye. "This is all wrong," he said solemnly. "You are—"

"Nervous?"

"Nervous is fine. Nervous is good. If you aren't nervous, we'll miss out on so very much, such as you trembling preciously, me having to comfort you, me getting nervous, you comforting me, someone trying to stop the dark passion consuming us so that the other one has to pin the trembler down and exert a little erotic force which is always enjoyable and hardly logical."

He did not move, save for the slight pulsing of his pelvis.

"You are not ready for this. I am not ready for this. Rather, I am ready (seriously, how could I not be?) but I must for the sake of drumming up tension insist without a shadow of doubt that you are in fact… uncertain."

I gasped. "I am not uncertain—I am certain of being certain."

Cecil stepped in front of the fire, his entire hard body framed by the raging red and yellow light. He was a god, a man, an angel, a demon, a very sane person, a very unstable person, an inexperienced and yet (I trusted) a very, very, VERY intuitive love-maker. He held out his hand to me and I instinctually went to him.

"You are unsure about… being with me."

"No, not really. I am sure that I want to be with you."

"You wish to lie with a monster?"

"Is Dracula about?"

Cecil shook his head. "_I'm_ the monster. Me. The Opera Ghost. The Lover of Trap-Doors and Breasts."

"You aren't a monster."

His hand touched my shoulder lightly.

"I am a monster. And you haven't even met the pocket demon. I shall… hurt you."

"You will?"

He nodded solemnly.

"With the candle wax?"

His eyes widened. "No, no, Catherine. I mean I shall physically hurt you in our wholly impossible and metaphor-laden union, and then most certainly hurt you emotionally. You will most likely find pleasure in both, but you will have regrets, then stop regretting, then feel very self-sufficient, then berate me for being a jackass, then love me again."

I tried so hard to follow this logic, Angelina. But I was far more interested in his beautiful robe.

"Cecil," I murmured, touching his robe. "This is beautiful."

"Thank you. I think yours would look even nicer on the ground. But if you aren't sure…"

"I am."

He ripped the robe from my body so fast and hard it got caught on my arms and I stumbled about. "Dammit," he swore under his breath, "I usually can get these off in one dramatic magical _whoosh_, where I make you feel vulnerable and desired."

I regained my footing and tousled my hair as I said, "Vulnerable and desired. Yes, I can work with that." I let him guide my hands all over his body, until he placed my palms on his nipples. "Pinch there, _mon ange_."

I pinched.

He twittered like a small bird.

"This, this joining… oh Catherine, we shall make the angels in heaven cry out in passionate release as we explore each other, learning and touching and trying out new and flavorful lubricants! You are my Angel, my savior, my pleasure vessel, my Delilah, my Persephone, my _Paris Showgirls '82_ spread. Take my clothes off with your teeth."

I attacked his robe orally, and he panted like one of those country dogs who used to mate with our darling poodle Trixie! I knelt down to begin attacking his pants when he shouted, "Hold on! WOO! Time out… Everyone think of croquet…"

"My Cherub, whatever is the matter?"

His face was flushed and his eyes were wild; he grasped my shoulders and pulled me to my feet. "This won't do… this really won't. I did _not_ wait this long to jump the starting shot. Or shoot the gun before the race has already begun. Or have to change my pants while you are still wearing clothes. No, no…" he said in a low voice, leading me to sit on the divan. He stepped away from me and turned to select a book from the shelf.

"Read this aloud."

"You want me to read aloud?"

"Yes."

"This book? Where did that lovely Kama Sutra book go?"

"Catherine, are you daring to defy me? I said 'Read.' Obey me and I promise you will not regret it."

I allowed him to direct me to the page he wished. He sat in front on me and lifted my nightgown hem over my knees. I began to read with as much confidence as I could muster:

"I do not like them in a box./ I do not like them with a fox."

Cecil kissed my knee softly.

"I do not like them in a house./ I do not like them with a mouse."

His tongue swirled around the soft creamy skin at the back of the joint. I shuddered and he muttered, "Read. More. This poetry inflames my already inflamed self."

"I do not like them here or there./ I do not like them anywhere."

Cecil's mouth worked down my leg, and I felt myself gasp and shift. "What… wha—" I ran a hand along my body, cooing my pleasure. He was at my shin now… I could barely breathe! I could barely think! I wanted nothing more than to be bare underneath him!

"READ dammit! You're almost at the best part!" He was licking my instep.

"I do not li--like green eggs and h-ha-ham!"

Cecil shoved my entire big toe in his mouth and I screamed out, "I DO NOT like them, Sam-I-AAAAAAAMMMMM!"

I threw the book aside and straddled him ingloriously. We kissed passionately, holding on to each other as if we were the very air that the other needed to live and not suffocate.

We were grinding, moaning, groaning, growling, pushing, rubbing, touching, undulating, pressing, slipping and sliding.

Cecil flipped me over and pinned me to the floor.

"Are you SURE?"

"YES!"

He rocked his pelvis into me and I threw my head back in ecstasy. "I knew making love would be so wonderful!"

"We haven't actually made love yet."

"Oh."

"This is just a bit of rhetorical foreplay before the actual act. Let's face it, Catherine," he said, pausing to catch his breath, "once we do 'it', the whole thing pretty much slides right downhill into yawn-worthy dullsville. Because really, why else am I here but to plunge forward and utterly posses you physically?"

"Well, you did help me sing better."

"Oh not really. All part of the 'getting into your corset' act."

Cecil kissed me again, sliding my nightgown off my pale, creamy, fantastically proportioned body. We rolled a bit on the carpet, just to move about in our passion. Gently he disengaged from me, and stood before me in all his heavenly glory.

"Do you want to see?"

"Yes," I gasped.

"You truly want to see… me?"

"Without a doubt." I shook my head and let my long locks cover my very pert breasts.

"Very well then. You shall see… Cecil." He touched the waistband of his pants and began to undo the top button.

A soft white light appeared out of nowhere to illuminate his precious area.

The pants gave way, and slid down his slim hips just barely. In the distance, I could have sworn I heard a drum roll… or the trill of a harp…

Suddenly, his most perfect area was exposed to the elements. His rock hard jiminy, velvet to the touch I think (of COURSE I have never touched a man's hootenanny!), ready to spring and bob and dance like the most efficient corps de ballet girl ever, was standing at attention, proud and tall like a member of the gendarmes!

Pink-purple-blue-mauve and ever so deliciously shaped, effectively greeting me with a darling "tip of the helmet." Oh Angelina, I was overcome!

Cecil stood quietly, letting me evaluate him.

"My Cherub, come to me!" I cried. He fell upon me, devouring me with his mouth, his hunger insatiable, his pocket demon pressing viciously against my thigh. We began to roll again, and when we had rolled a bit to the left, Cecil shot a hand out underneath a nearby end table. "I thought we might be able to make use of this…" he said, brandishing a strawberry. He traced my lips with the bumpy little fruit, and I bit down viciously. Cecil paled. "Perhaps we should move onto the chocolate sauce or the honey…and the leather straps."

After a moment, I was properly honeyed and trussed up like a Christmas goose. Cecil was teaching me about "delayed gratification," and I was a most willing pupil! Oh Angelina, Cecil was ever so patient, but not too patient, as he is always the temperamental sort… but I did not mind. He was absolutely perfect in every single way.

When I was fully rid of the honey thanks to a meticulous tongue bath and unleashed from the binds, Cecil stared into my eyes. I stared down at his third leg.

The moment was ripe and tense!

"Catherine…"

"Cecil…"

"I…"

"That really is most impressive."

Cecil looked down. "Yes, well, thank you. I have been compensated for this," he gestured to his face shakily, "with this."

I took his hand in mind. "Let us join together intimately. Two hearts, beating as one. Lost in love and I don't know much. Can you take me higher? Love is a battlefield, and I just want you to be my preacher-teacher, anything you have in mind. I've hungered for your love; let's get it on. Rock your body."

Cecil closed his eyes and pounced. There was pain at first, so much pain I nearly kicked him in the most tender of places and called him a Goat Molester (as Father called Christine). But then, oh then, I soared!

I crested!

Several times!

My internal organs clenched!

"ANGEL!"

"ANGEL!"

"CHERUB!"

"CHERUB!"

"NIPPLES!"

"BUDS!"

"RELEASE!"

"CRESCENDO!"

I screamed his name, clawed his back, professed him to be not so very Phantom-y at all, and threatened him with death if he slowed down. Cecil was above me, glistening and magical like an elf or some other impossible magical creature, flipping my legs over his shoulders and counterbalancing my weight against his.

I exploded. He exploded. I shattered into a million pieces. He lost himself in my body and began calling out for his pocket demon in a small, frightened voice.

I threw my arms around his neck and sobbed with joy and release.

"Oh Cecil! My Cherub! My ANGEL! My romantic hero!"

Cecil was so overcome with emotion that he promptly fell asleep.

I held his unconscious body close to my sticky one, and whispered softly into his ear.

"I'm so glad you want to marry me!"

Exhaustedly,  
Catherine

_A/N: Catherine rudely quotes random love songs and reads from Dr. Seuss. I don't own them, I don't own anything to do with POTO, but have mad love for it all._


	20. In which I burst

**A/N Warnings continue. Thanks to phantomy-cookies for moral support and beta services. I apologize for the delay. I've truly been practicing for my Orals. snicker**

1870, March 6.

Oh, oh, oh Angelina,

When I awoke, Cecil and I were still on the ground. He had shifted away from me in the night—such a considerate lover, trying to give me more room for certain! I rolled over and clung to his massive chest, intertwining my legs with his, as he mumbled so softly, his breath so… fragrant!

"Yes, my Cherub?" I gently brushed the hair on his chest and tried to braid it gently.

He frowned and tried to bat my hands away. "Your music is going to soar—lamp oil… get the lamp oil."

I leaned my head down and laved on his nipple, humming.

"That's fine then. Get the crop. I'm game."

Looking up, I whispered. "Cecil?"

He moaned and tried to disengage from me, surely to save me from what must have been a terrifying nightmare of abuse and torture. Oh, my poor love: so strong, such a hero to have survived… whatever it was he was dreaming of. Oh Angelina, my adoration for him grows by the minute!

As did my chill—it was very dark, and there was no fire anymore, having died down long ago as we passionately said, "How do you do" to each other. I was ever so thirsty, and I decided to put my nightgown and robe back on before I went to search for refreshment.

"Ninnyfeathers!"

I turned around, my hands flying to my waist to tie the belt.

Cecil stirred and curled up, and I could imagine a soft smile playing on his lips much like the way you and I would play nude in the mud of so long ago, my darling womb-mate. I started to kneel down by him again when I heard him mumble, "Or is the safe word 'Chocolate Starfish?" Do forgive me, I forget. It's your turn to wear the top hot while I go over the Opera house ledger with you. And try to stay in character this time. Something tells me you've been cooking the books again, my little 'Firmin.'"

Oh my dearest Cherub—he never stopped thinking of the Opera Populaire-Garnier! Even in the repose of sleep, his mind was ever turned to the fiscal security of our beloved home.

Home. I mused upon this as I went to fetch some water, or wine, or maybe wine that was once water but now was grape juice, as surely Cecil was not ultimately divine but more or less penultimately divine. It seems forever since we had a place to truly call our own.

I reached out and felt my way through the cave-like house and found what I hoped to be the kitchen. I fumbled around what I imagined to be the counter space, where Cecil keeps his spice rack and his little pig as a chef statue that holds a sign that reads, "Kiss the Cook on the Left Part of His Mouth." My knee knocked into the table, or so I presumed, and my fingers skimmed the surface looking for a jug or a bottle. My darling pink mouth was utterly parched, you must realize, from our vigorous physical activity.

After what seemed an eternity of this, I finally placed my hands on a firm, smooth, cool cylindrical shape. I felt it up and down, loving the sensation between my palms. Disengaging the cork, I tipped my head back and rejoiced as the liquid touched my plump lips.

How familiar this seemed!

And suddenly how wrong!

Oh Angelina, the taste of it! It was like the blackest licorice from the darkest bowels of hell! I choked, I keened, I stammered—I set the bottle down violently and struggled to keep my stomach from turning. I had ingested so much that I thought my throat was on fire. All I wanted was to lie down, in Cecil's warm embrace, near his faithful pocket demon and surrender myself to his love.

I dare say I wanted to leave small mementos of myself along the corridor as I staggered back into the den.

"Catherine?"

I heard him though I could not see him. I tried to reach out, but my arms felt far too limber to contain bones any longer.

"Cecil?"

I heard the match-strike, and then the flame of a candle hovered somewhere near me.

He moved the candle, I suppose, for suddenly I saw the most beautiful wavy lines of gold and red, like ripples in silk, or the inside of the Populaire-Garnier just after you've been ostensibly "shot" as if a bird by your erstwhile lover.

"What lovely colors…" I said, reaching a hand out to the flame.

The light moved so quickly I had trouble following it, and I nearly fell.

"Dear God, Catherine, you nearly burned yourself!"

I tried to look at him, but he seemed to be everywhere and nowhere, like a very pretentious contradictory line of prose. The light came back.

"Catherine, what is the matter with you?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"No. Nothing."

"Nothing is often very much something."

"No it isn't."

"Yes it is."

"Shut up."

He gasped. "What did you just say to me?"

"Nothing."

"Son of a—"

"If you swear at me, I think I shall be violently ill, all over that candle, which is our only source of light, thus leaving us in darkness, much like a womb. Or a tomb. Or a cave. That may or may not be needy. Who can say? But it will be primal, and fairly Freudian. I bet you didn't know I knew who Freud was, did you?"

A finger went under my chin to tip my head up. I tried to smile, but the expression seemed to slip right off my face. Repeatedly.

"Oh bloody hell. You got into the abs—"

_"He's a complicated man,  
But no one understands him but his woman…"_

I reached down and made my point. Cecil growled and backed away, and then he leapt upon me with feline… nay panther-like grace. I think I lost my nightgown again in the scuffle, but I was utterly unconcerned, as it was hot here in the tropical rainforest. A beautiful rainbow had appeared, or so I thought, and I saw what I believed to be many, many monkeys eating bananas and fingering pencils, wrenches, conducting batons, swords, fire-arms, candlesticks and large golden male genitals, presumably thieved from the opera house itself!

I was in rapture.

I was transported!

I had a large red rear-end in my face.

A baboon was sitting on my chest! I was being ravished by a baboon, whose hairy body slid upon mine in careless whispers, like the kind of whispers twin girls might share that cause their father to blush and swear not to spank them so delightfully ever again!

Limbs crashed into limbs, bodies into bodies—I'm quite certain that I felt an extra pair of hands on me, but who can really say? Cecil was no longer Cecil. He was purely physical, a creature of energy and light and humping. I was careening in space, his pocket demon everywhere, penetrating my very soul!

"Cecil, what's happening?"

"Hush my love. Don't speak. When you speak I have to remember it's you."

"Oh my love! You too are transported!"

"Ah, yes. Yes. That's right. A little to the left, my Cherub…"

"You aren't a man, Cecil."

"I'm not?" The movement never stopped.

"Oh no. You are a beast!"

"Ah yes. Beast. Horned beast, eh?"

"You are a unicorn!"

We exploded again, of course, simultaneously. "I shall be the unicorn's wife!" I exclaimed, and he jerked away from me.

"Pardon?"

I fumbled my arms about me madly. "Oh… you are a unicorn, and I am a princess! Or a servant… and you are a prince? Let's pretend we live in the past, or in the future! But we'll always come back to this. This, my red-cheeked baboon of primal lust!"

Cecil helped me to my feet, then watched me tremble and scooped me up over his shoulder.

"To bed with you my dear. You need to sleep this off."

Some time passed happily for me, for I awoke fresh, though sore, but only happily sore, like after a game of "Hide and Seek" with Father! I rose, and dressed myself in a fetching rose-colored frock. I took my time and wrote of course to you my beloved, and, sealing the envelope, went off in search of Cecil. I found him at his writing desk too, and charmingly skipped over to throw my arms about his neck.

"Good morning, my Cherub," I moaned in his ear.

"Catherine. Good morning. Actually," he casually flipped open his watch, "it's rather more, good day, I think." He patted my arm and turned to me. "Hungry?"

I nodded eagerly, like a precocious poodle.

He went to the kitchen. "Fear not, dear, I've hidden the offending liquor. You may come in and sit."

I obeyed him, tossing the letter onto the table.

"Will you take this to be mailed, please?"

Cecil picked it up and scanned it carefully. "Angelina?" he asked, not unkindly.

"My twin sister."

His mouth opened and his lips moved in the shape of twin as his eyes roved over my being. "Another one," he whispered. "Looks just like you?"

"Oh yes. We are practically identical! Though she has a slightly larger… bosom you might say." Oh I know I blushed at that. To say the word "bosom" in front of a man! How… bold of me! "Father always said more than a handful was a waste, but I have always maintained the Angelina had downy pillows that Titian would have wanted to paint!"

Cecil stared at me, obviously impressed as well at the description!

"So, you two are close then?"

"Very! She is my womb-mate, my love. We shared a bed all our life, holding each other after bad nightmares, sharing bath-time and our father's tender affections."

He pushed a plate of bread and cheese in front of me.

"Don't stop," he whispered. "Do go on."

I chuckled as I nibbled on some gouda. "Oh, there's nothing exciting about it at all! Nothing like planning for our wedding!"

Cecil dropped the glass he was holding, and wine ran all over the table.

"Wedding?"

"Of course my darling," I cooed as I munched on a bit of sourdough bread. "I was thinking… medium-sized. Meg as my Maid of Honor. Christine as my Matron of Honor, if I can find a dress for Meg that could fit Christine without making her look like a suicidal whale… I thought tulips too, and maybe everything being in lavender and dark burgundy. Might you ask M. Reyer to be your Best Man? Or perhaps… oh I think it would be lovely to honor M. Reyer so! He is a bit fussy, but really he—"

Before I could utter another word, Cecil had me by the waist and was hustling me out of the kitchen. He set me down by the great organ, which of course stood before the great lake, and was flipping through his music. "We've been remiss!" he said with shaky cheer. "You have a performance on the horizon, do you not?"

"Indeed I do, beloved Cherub of spousal intent!"

His shoulders seemed to rise and he appeared to hunch over his instrument.

"Ah, let's work on this. The duet. From the beginning, Mademoiselle?"

"Not for much longer!"

Cecil hit the keys awkwardly, producing an uncomfortable sound.

"Sing, dammit."

_He was rather cute  
And almost fine  
But he was rude and he was crude and would not mind!  
And now he's a pet  
And it's all clear  
His pocket demon really wasn't to be feared._

Cecil rolled his eyes and began to sing:

_She's seen me nude  
I could barely watch  
As her eyes moved up and down over my crotch!  
I thought she'd swear  
And run away  
But then she rolled over and totally made my day!_

I laid my hand on his shoulder and opened my mouth to emit a glorious warble!

_New and wonderfully exciting!  
I had no idea what lay under there!  
Pocket demons are ever so amusing…  
If you can ever find them in that thatch of—_

Cecil stood violently and threw me onto the organ. My dress when flying over my head and he was there, so there and I was very encouraging to him. He was sort of on the organ himself, his knees hitting keys, my knees hitting keys, then my face when into the G sharp, I think (oh Cecil would be so angry that I couldn't remember!), then my posterior was up against one of the pipes. I think Cecil was holding on to one himself, until he dropped down on all fours and used the organ seat like a seesaw leverage device to hold me up as he… expertly loved me. I do think at one point my head was down at the pedals, but I cannot be sure. The rushing of the blood to the face is quite taxing, you know.

When last he was sated, he flipped me over his shoulder and took us to the dear swan bed, where he lay me down and bade me not say anything. He shrugged off his clothes, and climbed in next to me.

Oh Angelina, how I love him so!

Everything is terribly, brilliantly, explosively wonderful! Except. Oh, I really oughtn't think about it.

Father always said that my curiosity would either make me a wealthy woman or strike me down. But I cannot help it, I cannot!

I am starting to wonder what is behind his tiny white mask…

All my engorged love,  
Catherine

_A/N: Lyrics to Shaft and Disney's Beauty and the Beast used without permission. Obviously._


	21. In which I am curious

**A/N: My apologizes to phantomy-cookies for any errors. I swear I make corrections, and FFN eats them for dinner. Thanks to all the dear reviewers and readers who don't review. Mee hee hee! Warnings still apply. **

1870, March 8.

My Angelina,

It was so tiny!

Just a little thing really. Petit. Like a garden snail. Leaning to one side. Limp. Inconsequential, really. Hardly worth a second glance.

That miniscule white mask clung to his cheek like a lover, desperate to be close, to be one, to be seamlessly attached to the other in a passionate embrace, where bodily fluids are exchanged in the harmonious and ancient dance of two souls grinding like an organ grinder with a leaping monkey, the monkey much like the man's hootenanny, bouncing and eager, weeping with emotion.

I had to touch it.

I simply had to. It wasn't an option. Much like I came to know Cecil's pocket demon, I had to know his face. He'd kept his true self from me forever, and it was time that I knew him fully. After all, we were soon to be married! And married people can have no secrets! Remember what Papa used to say? "Your mother tried to keep me from selling her jewelry by burying them in the garden. As if I didn't know where she'd hidden them! Or that she was playing tiddly-wink with the baker in town. Now come sit on my lap!"

Staring at his mask, I reached a hand up to touch it gently. In sleep, he looked so peaceful, almost like a baby. An incontinent baby, particularly when he frowned and seemed to need a diaper change. Oh Angelina, the left side of Cecil's face was absolutely flawless. His eyebrow was perfectly waxed. His eyelashes fanned perfectly over his darling bronze cheek. He grew only the most erotic stubble, you know, and his mouth. His mouth! A pair of softer, plumper, moister, nibble-abler, chewabler, gag-abler lips I have yet to find! Cecil's mouth was a symphony, an aria, a sonnet, an epitaph, and a haiku to beauty. I wanted to sing, to lick, to paw and grind multiple body parts on his face, in seemingly uncontrolled ecstasy.

The porcelain was smooth beneath my fingertips. I traced the brow, the half-nose, the tiny part along the cheekbone: Smooth, sensuous, like a tender, expert though virginal lover ready to lift you into unexplored realms of sexual discovery! He shifted in his sleep, murmuring something that sounded like "I like milk chocolate best." I paused and breathed in quietly.

Surely this was an invasion of his privacy.

Well, he had most assuredly invaded my privacy only moments ago.

But I should wait for him to reveal himself to me!

Though he was more than happy to divest me of my pantalets with the greatest of ease…

Yes, I simply had to know.

I curled my fingers around the mask. I tugged.

Nothing happened.

I propped myself on my elbow. I tugged again.

"Do you want me to call you Mumsie?"

I opened my mouth to speak, then reconsidered and began to pick at the mask like a scab. It simply would not budge! I sat up and used both hands. Nothing! I threw a leg over his waist and put my heart into it. Angelina, it was as if the most stubborn glue had affixed it to his magnificent head!

He swatted at me, called me a "buttery nipple shocker of a vixen,' then opened his eyes.

"Catherine?"

I smiled brightly.

"Good morning, my love!"

Cecil looked around. "Everything all right?"

"Of course!"

"Why… heh… why are you sitting on me?"

I blushed. Cecil smirked. "Ready for another go of it?"

Several exhausting hours later, we rose, and feasted on some bread and cheese. I stared at his mask. Cecil seemed oblivious. He slumped in his chair indulgently, nibbling on a hunk of Brie. "Catherine, you are fantastic."

"A fantastic singer?"

"No."

"A fantastic actress?"

"God, no."

"A fantastic dancer?"

"I've never even seen you move. Well, pirouette, that is. In other venues, you move like a professional."

"That's what Marcus told me."

Cecil stopped mid-chew. "Pardon me?"

I sipped some wine. "What?"

"You've been conversing with other men?"

"Not since I've been with you, of course!"

"Good. I think. Although perhaps you _should_ branch out. Play the field. See what's out there?"

I set my goblet down and flung my arms around him. "Never ever! I adore you! And you adore me! Many times over! I shall never want another!"

Curiously, I felt him try to pull away, to pry his body from my grasp. He is so shy, so unaccustomed to love! My dearest heart— his sensitive nature so damaged by our haggish sister. I should like to burn her at the stake for her cruelty. I sat on his lap and touched his chin. I then cupped my hand on the mask. He shook his head as if a gnat were buzzing about. I patted the mask, and he shifted uncomfortably. I tried to slip a fingernail under the rim, and he batted my hand away.

"Have you ever indulged in the fine Parisian art of Hot-Tubbing?"

"No, never!"

"Excellent."

Cecil stood, and I slipped off his lap with an embarrassing "thump" to the floor. "Follow me, then. And do bring the bottle of merlot with you, if you please?"

I did as he requested; when had I not? I adored him, Angelina, I did! I wanted to know him, and love him, and love him exquisitely, in unique ways… so I followed. Candle in hand, he lead me down a narrow stone walkway along the lake. He called it some word that started with an A, but I shall be damned if I can remember it.

Albert?

Advertisement?

Angina?

No matter… I followed and reached my hand out to hold his. His hand jerked to and fro, as if he wanted to shake me off, but I knew that surely wasn't the case, so I playfully shoved him, causing him to trip! Cecil looked back at me with a scowl.

"Honestly. Amsterdam isn't looking too bad these days. But that rack…"

"Of lamb?"

Cecil blanched. "Yes. Of lamb. Mmmm, lamb."

"Darling, it's so dark… I'm surprised we aren't tripping and falling into each other!"

"Well, that's certainly not going to happen any more, Catherine," he said with a disapproving tone. "We've had sex, my dear."

I blushed charmingly. "No we haven't."

Cecil stopped abruptly and turned to face me. "Yes we have."

I giggled. "Oh no. Not at all."

"What precisely would you call it then?"

"Making love," I beamed. "Becoming one. Singing with our bodies. Communicating with our souls. Letting our skin slap together. Joining in the most intimate of handshakes. Enacting the 'pokey-pokey.' And best of all, getting engaged!"

Cecil looked frightened. "No no. We had sex. Sex. We had sex. None of the soul business. Just… you know… doing it."

"Never 'just' anything, my dove. Being with you is a religious experience."

Cecil put his hand on the small of my back and fairly shoved. "Let's get going, shall we?"

We finally rounded on a beautiful round pit filled with bubbling water and steam rising. I noticed a little shelf built into the stone with various jars of bath salts, stacks of towels, and strange, long, ribbed toys lined up neatly. "Cecil…"

He dropped his pants. 'Yes?"

"Oh nothing." I turned my back to him and stepped out of my luxurious nightgown. Demurely, I placed my hands over my bosom and lowered myself into the water. Cecil did the same, though less demurely as he flexed and stood in profile for me to applaud.

Stepping into the water, Cecil giggled rather unmanly as the bubbles hit his… manly business. I blushed and handed him the bottle of wine, from which he promptly drank.

"Doesn't this feel marvelous? Makes you forget all about… whatever mistakes you've made…"

"Oh yes," I agreed. I bounced over to him, feeling bubbles assault me as only Cecil had! "Darling," I said, caressing his chest. "Sing to me."

"Something from 'Beauty and the Beast'?"

"From your pocket demon."

He frowned, then shrugged and lifted me up. Oh Angelina, Cecil was inspired: He rode onward as if he imagined me to be César. He spanked my bottom, kicked my ribs with his heels, offered me a carrot if I would spank him back, and finally asked me to neigh if I was pleased.

I did neigh, Angelina. I did.

After neighing, I turned around to look on him. His broad chest was heaving with the exertion of our violent sexual congress, while all around him the steam rose in great billows. That is when I noticed it.

His mask.

It was slipping off.

But he was far too ecstatic to notice!

Inch by inch, it came unhinged, until finally it plopped into the water.

I screamed!

He screamed!

The air screamed!

The organ screamed!

I think Cecil's pocket monster screamed, but I cannot be sure.

It was horrific, Angelina… worse than I could have ever imagined. It was reddish, whitish, a little pink perhaps, even fuchsia too. I tried to turn away, but alas I could not—for it was a tragic, nauseating sight! It looked as if a tiny mouse had nibbled violently on his cheek! In the shape of a star!

Oh, I felt my stomach turn!

And then my eyes drifted up the ruin of… part of his face… just under his eye, really… and then I saw it. My eyes truly did leave my head as I beheld the vomit-inducing vision of his eyebrow.

It was _un-waxed!_

He thrust his hand up to his face. "HOW DARE YOU TRICK ME SO!"

I trembled in the wake of his fury.

"But I didn't do any—"

"OH DEAR GOD SHUT UP YOU ASS! DAMN YOU, YOU PRYING PANDORA!"

"Did I just release great secrets into the world via a lockbox?"

"STOP TALKING NOW AND LET ME YELL AT YOU DELILAH!"

"I most certainly did not cut your hair, Cecil! Be reasonable!"

"I CANNOT YOU HAVE BREACHED MY LAST FORTRESS OF SOLITUDE WHY COULDN'T WE JUST ENJOY THE NOOKIE AND LEAVE THE SONNUVABITCHIN MASK ALONE I HATE YOU SO MUCH GET OUT OF MY SIGHT WHORE OF ALL WHOREDOM! I'M SO ANGRY I SHALL BE CONDEMNED TO ALL CAPS FOREVER! AND MULTIPLE MARKS OF PUNCTUATION!"

With a cry of anguish, Cecil collapsed into a heap of despair at the side of the hot tub. I tried to reach out to him: I touched his shoulder, and he turned the perfect side of his head to me and said, "WHAT PART OF 'GET OUT' CONFUSES YOU? I'M NOT SPEAKING FRENCH, HON! THIS IS ALL ENGLISH. GET YOUR VERY TIGHT AND PERT BEHIND OUT OF MY UNDERGROUND BACHELOR PAD NOW BEFORE I SUMMARILY THROW YOU INTO THE LAKE AND POINT AT YOU AS YOU FLOUNDER ABOUT!"

In fear, I leapt out of the water, grabbed my clothes, and made a hot, wet, naked dash for the Opera Populaire-Garnier above.

Sobbing,  
Catherine


	22. In which I return to the world above

**A/N: All my thanks to phantomycookies for her beta services and her wonderful brainstorming. She's a treasure. Warnings apply. **

1870, March 9.

Precious Angelina,

Through the darkest of dark I ran: My tender, bare feet burning, my blonde locks billowing in the wind, my nipples hardening to impossible peaks of petrification. I stumbled once, nearly falling to my knees (which of course is a familiar place to me), and I fought nearly in vain to press forward, to continue my assent, to emerge from the clutches of this horrific Hades—this conniving Cupid—this boisterous Bacchus—this churlish Charon--- this creeping Crepitus!

For aren't I a persecuted Persephone, a servile Psyche, a maligned Maenad, a succulent Sybil?

I am succulent, Angelina. I am.

I wept as I ran, though. Oh, Cecil looked so tortured back at the hot tub! He had not meant to lash out at me so… he was laid bare and vulnerable before me! Even more bare and vulnerable than the time he rolled over coyly and asked me to play "Find the Gland."

He really is fragile, Angelina, like a tiny china doll; he's terribly misunderstood, you know. Cecil is most often gentle, giggly really, full of gas! Oh, it was only once his poor mask was gone that his defenses dropped. I suppose it was my fault, if I am honest. I surely provoked this revelation. I shouldn't have pulled on it so hard.

Though Cecil often compliments my tugging prowess.

Oh sister, thoughts such as these flooded my brain as I made my way up towards the opera house. I ran my palms along the stone walls, hoping to divine my way back to the sliding mirror of my dressing room. I prayed:

_Dear Roman Catholic God,_

_I know that I haven't been a very good Catholic of late. I admit that the thought of the Pope taking over Paris frightened me away from rosaries and confessionals. I simply got caught up in the moment…and the handsome young man fighting against such a military and theocratic movement!_

_I promise that in the Daaé tradition I am terrifyingly Catholic, whether any dear historian has researched anything to do with the conventions, belief systems, nuances, contradictions, or the socio-political implications of being a member of the faith._

_I'm not exactly sure what I wish to say; I feel that when I pray, I suddenly adopt a heightened sense of diction, syntax and complex reason. So different from when I sing, or sew, or make lo… Oh, you know! _

_Please deliver me from this highly erotic and treacherous situation! You saved Christine, and she sacrifices goats to Satan._

_Surely I'm doing better than that, aren't I?_

_You faithful child and servant…_

I thought that I could see light, and I felt my heart swell. Surely I was nearly home! I started to smile a little, to think of bathing and dressing in one of my fine frocks, and to hope perhaps that Patrick might be there.

_Oh please let Patrick be there, _I prayed, feeling passionate and ecstatic all at once!

I stood in front of the mirror, and I depressed the lever with my hand as I stomped my bare, bloody, filthy-dirty feet. I closed my eyes and let my nightgown fall to my feet, never to be thought of again as I suddenly felt a massive _whoosh _of air and the floor beneath me springing up!

I was ejaculated into the air, a trail of white nightgown flying behind me!

Oh Angelina! I was spurted tremblingly, salty with tears, landing in a heap on Patrick's stomach! When I finally roused myself, I found that I was sprawled naked on his person, which was costumed most charmingly in the Gaston apparel. Oh, I would have found him ever so handsome if I hadn't realized in a flash of clarity that if Patrick was in costume, he was in rehearsal.

If he was in rehearsal, it was most surely a dress rehearsal.

If it were indeed a dress rehearsal, then the entire cast would be there.

And the strange cold draft meant that we were, in point of fact, on stage.

I looked down at my perfect creamy thighs.

I looked up at M. Reyer, who was twitching. I glanced over at M. Andre, who seemingly fingered his nipples through his waistcoat. M. Firmin licked his lips and said, "Oh my dearest diva, won't you sing us another _Pie Jesu_?"

Patrick scooted me to his side and rolled over on top of me. "Everyone please! Give the lady some privacy!"

Madame Giry rapped her cane on the stage floor. "You take zat pelvis to zee costume closet! We weel 'ave none of zees erotic behavior on stage!"

M. Reyer made to speak, but Madame Giry leveled her cane at him. "'Past Zee Point 'ov No Return does not count!" She cleared her throat. "But that does remind me: Bring zee apple and zee lasso next time. _I_ know how to make it magical." I do believe she tried to wink at M. Reyer, who shuddered even more violently.

"Madame, I am not trying to further shame this girl! I merely mean to cover her with my manly costume cloak so that she may preserve her modesty!" Patrick looked down at me. "And what a buxom modesty it is, _ma petite cochonne_!"

I blushed furiously and tried to cover myself with his cloak as he wiggled out of it. Standing and trying to smooth my hair, I looked around at the smug faces in the wings. Oh Angelina, they were so judgmental, so cruel: They knew nothing of my trial by fire, of my Cherub of Music and Fondling singing songs in my head, and my dirty nether-region.

Which I fought fiercely to keep covered, lest the Gorgon show her beastly face!

"Catherine, let me get you to your room." I turned to see dear Lissy's face, cross with worry. "Surely it _is_ entertaining to point and stare as if you were a hairless monkey in a cage, and certainly I can see arguments in favor of sticking you with a gypsy circus to learn the fine art of Topless Plate-Spinning, but… oh, I really do feel a little for you." She put her arm around my shoulder and helped me hold the cloak around my soft, fragrant, naked body. "You aren't truly mean-spirited. You don't seek to kill people. You do have a terribly inflated sense of self, but I suspect that's less _your_ fault than the lineage of your maker. You come from bad stock, as a general rule."

"Papa says that it's not inbreeding if you don't make an angel in your tummy."

Lissy seemed to gag a little at that, but I do remember embroidering our father's brilliant maxim onto a pillow. Perhaps you still have that sampler at your home?

She shuffled me to my dressing room, and bade me sit on the settee as she skittered nervously over to the immense armoire. "Ah, Catherine?"

"Mmm?"

"Where are your clothes?"

I shrugged. "I suppose Cecil took them down to his lair."

"Dear Lord in Heaven," she said with a sigh, smacking her head with her palm. "Of course he did. How silly of me." She stepped into the armoire precariously and emerged with a swath of black material.

"I needn't ask why he chose to leave this particular garment behind."

Moments later I stood in front of the managers' office, waiting for them to admit me. Word was sent that they were anxious to see me, and I, in my naturally humble and congenial way, was more than willing to comply.

"Sister?"

I bowed my head, hoping that M. Firmin would simply shoo his sibling away and let us get onto this very important meeting.

"Sister?"

I looked up at that. "Oh no! It's me, Catherine!"

"Has this demonic affair driven you to the cloister?" asked M. Firmin, his eyes wide.

I picked at my habit. "Oh no. I just… this was all I had to wear."

"I know better than to ask." He stepped aside. "Do come in."

I obeyed and took the seat offered me. M. Firmin sat behind the desk while M. Andre leaned against the bookcase behind him. "Miss Daaé, first we must inquire as to your health and well-being. But as you look pink-cheeked, vibrant and healthily endowed, we won't concern ourselves with the more logical and long-lasting mental and emotional issues that would naturally result from a dramatically violent situation that in turn lead to a semi-kidnapping and what we can only assume was sexual slavery, naturally resulting in feelings of violation but also sympathy, empathy, bonding and misguided notions of 'love' that render you in a fluctuating state in which you cannot be charged with culpability or rational decision-making of any kind, though we are both," he nodded at Andre, "absolutely against labeling you as a _victim_, or any other pejorative that would either further denigrate your status or deny you your autonomy thanks to an epistemology based on a traditional yet archaic patriarchal system bent on condemning you for your sex, a factor predetermined at conception and hardly a determinate that should lash you to the stake and roast you like a turkey on a spit."

I stared at him. "I met the pocket demon."

M. Firmin stared at me. "No doubt about that."

M. Andre interrupted. "Initially, the Phantom wished that you would assume the lead in our production of 'Beauty and the Beast.' You need not be shy at this point. I trust he's been working with you on the score?"

I nodded with spectacular humility.

He fingered a note in front of him. "He seems to have backed off of that… eh… insistence a bit." He tossed the note to me, and I read it aloud:

_My dear managers,_

_I really can be a bit of a pill, can't I? Ah, I do get moody, I know—it's not like I'm off summering in the South of France down here! But alas, I know when I've gone too far. After the first "Daaé Debacle," I really did get a sense of boundaries, of self-respect, which certainly leads to respecting others, which I am trying to deploy presently. _

_Never mind about Miss Catherine Daaé taking the lead. _

_Really, let's just call this whole affair "water under the Opera House," shall we?_

_If you really want to mend fences and electrical power outlets (I do apologize about shorting out the last rehearsal. I was using a plug-in… device… down here and I didn't get the correct European adaptor and well… you surely know the result!), you will order THREE egg salad sandwiches the next time you get take-out from _Chez Leroux_ and you will leave one for me in Box Five._

_O.G._

I set the letter down and tried to process it all. "So, I won't be Belle after all?"

"Ah… well…" stammered M. Andre.

"We think this is a trick, you see, " said M. Firmin.

"Oh no," I said quickly. "He does like egg salad sandwiches, though they really don't agree with his constitution."

The gentlemen were duly impressed with my revelation!

"That part may be true, but we believe he _wants _us to make a mistake here. He wants us to _not_ cast you, so that he can blame us, wage unholy war on us, and possibly drop a heavenly body on us this time."

"Truly, I bet he's gunning for the moon. The moon would be worse than a shattered chandelier," muttered M. Andre.

"So we do plan to cast you as Belle. To satisfy him once again, in the hopes that he'll just leave us alone and let us contemplate a move to the visual arts," said M. Firmin.

"Or vaudeville. I think I could run a freak show," added M. Andre.

"When do rehearsals start again?" I asked anxiously.

"We'll take a short break…to let you find more suitable clothes… perhaps Mademoiselle de Mithrileux could loan you a frock?"

After our long, exhausting, hard, poundingly athletic evening, I was groaning in desperate, delicious agony. It was just ecstasy to simply sing again, to allow my most glorious talent to fill the air with joy and rapture, to indulge in the fine art of tantric breathing and relaxed throats!

I suddenly missed Cecil desperately. How could I enjoy this triumph without him? Without his pocket monster?

Dejectedly, I retired to my room, to practice a bit more, or gargle some warm water, or was that cool water? Probably tea.

Tea is the key to world peace!

I sat down to my little kettle and poured a cup. I was just in the midst of writing you when a little note card came sliding under my door.

I was paralyzed with fear.

And desire.

Fearful desire.

Erotic horror?

Pain and pleasure?

I stood shakily and retrieved the missive.

It read as follows:

_Kitty-Kat: Green light. Debut. Rampart stage left. Be there or be square. Word. _

It was signed: _Alphabet Soup_

Beloved womb-mate, I am so lost.

Confused yet perfectly coiffured,  
Catherine


	23. In which I debut

1870, March 11.

My dear, darling, delectable sister,

I hardly know where to begin.

I should begin at the very beginning, a very good place to start.

But if I begin at the beginning, should I not start when we truly did share the womb, bound together in Nature's First Dance of Life? Back further perhaps, to when Father met Mother and offered her the privileged existence as the wife of a traveling musician, sleeping on palates of straw and pig dropping? Certainly it was Father's wonderful spirit and soft, warm mouth that made it all worthwhile. I know that during the coldest of Sweden's winters, we two found great comfort between dear Papa's hot thighs…

Oh, it shall not do to indulge in happy fantasy!

Where I once found pleasure, I only find dread; my singing, my Cecil, strung up in my bed…

And he'll always be there, asking about "head." He'll always be there, blathering on about…"head"…

That night was to be my grand Paris debut, my first turn as the beautiful ingénue singing to win over her first hideous and later handsome beau. I knew that my golden gown for the powerful aria in the second act would solidify me as the reigning diva in all of Eurasia! I began to hum a few bars of "Think of Me," the perfect song to match my truly perfect voice.

"Darling!"

I shrugged on my robe dreamily (Angelina, you know how dreamily I can be! Why, I'll daydream myself into a drooling stupor!) and opened the door slightly to reveal my dashing Patrick. "May I come in?"

"Dear friend, I am hardly decent."

"Just as I hoped—please, I simply wish to offer you my… support."

I permitted him entry, and he flopped onto my settee with a curious air of ownership.

"Nervous, pet?"

"No no."

"Not at all?"

"Not really."

"Nothing a good rub-down can cure?"

"Oh Patrick, it really is generous of you to care so…" I forgot my thought as he stood and walked to my dressing table. He picked up a piece of notepaper and read aloud, "Alphabet Soup… what is this dearest? A menu? Shall I fetch you some bread? Some Camembert? A little wine?"

I stepped quickly to the door and gestured for him to leave. "Monsieur, please don't concern yourself with my silly well-being! I'll meet you on stage shortly to warm ourselves." Patrick leered at me as I gave him a sharp push on the back into the hallway.

Angelina, I have never had a more difficult time getting ready for a performance. Never, I tell you! Hearing my private dresser moan and gasp outside my room only served to remind me that once I too had been loved by such a noble, if scarred, soul. I touched an embroidered hanky to my eye and delicately sniffed as I recalled Cecil's gallant gestures so early in our romance. The roses, the bread, the milk of magnesia to "move everything along intestinally"—how he once loved me so well! Now my wretched maid Pansy was the object of physical devotion that should have been mine. She was shaking hands with a pocket demon right now, I would have wagered. No doubt the pocket demon in Pansy's palsied hand was shriveled and crooked, particularly in remembrance of Cecil's noble soldier.

I was powdering my décolleté when Pansy entered.

"It's about time, you shameful harlot," I muttered. "I have to be in costume and at the warm up on stage in less than half an hour."

"Mmmmmhf," said Pansy.

"Mmmmmhf indeed. Now fetch me that rose-hued corset… the one that stops just below the…"

"Downy pillows?" squeaked Pansy.

"Certainly! But we needn't name them! They are dirty bags… unless they are small enough to fit in Papa's hand. Help me please, Pansy, I'd rather be whipped than touch these things myself."

"You want me to handle your teats?" queried Pansy, her voice cracking.

"Of course, silly! If you can give me a full body massage before every performance, you can certainly handle my devil's dumplings!" I cast my robe aside and turned to face her, hands on hips, my leather boots squeaking slightly at quite the inopportune time. "Really Pansy, isn't it a bit less than de rigueur these days to wear black-hooded cloaks?"

Pansy shook her head violently and fetched my corset. "Arms up!" she cried. I obeyed, and Pansy took her time hooking me up. She even had me face her, so that she was forced to wrap her long, rather muscular arms around my torso, her tongue tracing circles around the tender flesh just behind my ear. "Lavender perfume… my absolute favorite," she whispered.

"Naturally, Pansy. Last night you insisted that I anoint my lady business with rose water and dip my nippies in powdered sugar after I dabbed the lavender oil behind my ears and knees. Really, my dear maid, you are… Pansy, what are you doing?"

Pansy ceased tasting my nippy. "Just, er, making sure you were telling the truth!"

I huffed. "As if I could be duplicitous. In fact, I truly wish I could be. Oh, whatever shall I do…"

"Do? About what?"

"Nothing, nothing… fetch my garter and stockings now, please. You really must be careful and get the stocking as high on my thigh, as close to my soft, warm core as possible. I'll brook no argument on this, Pansy."

Pansy set about her task with enthusiasm, adding sensuous touches along the way. I sighed as I imagined her erstwhile lover catching her unawares, stealing sweet kisses and invasive touches.

"Oh Cecil," I whispered.

"Yes?"

"No, Pansy. Cecil."

"What about it?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"It's nothing."

"It's never nothing. Nothing gets you a slap and a night in the coffin, don't you know that?"

I leapt away and cried out, "You fiend! How dare you read my Hello Kitty diary? How could you betray me, Pansy?"

The black cloak swirled off the figure before me, moving as if in a tight figure 8, then around the waist in a flicking motion, then between the legs as if to wash the groin, and finally flipped up like a parachute and left to flutter silently to the ground.

"CECIL!"

He displayed his pelvis to me with a flourish.

"At your service," he purred, the malice barely concealed. I wrapped my arms around my bare chest. "How dare you," I seethed. "Where is Pansy? Shall I yell for the gendarmes?"

"My dear, the gendarmes want nothing to do with me after that little 'stunt' of mine last time. And Pansy…well, Pansy's rather tied up at the moment."

I pointed my toe and lifted my chin. "What do you want of me, you monster?"

"Didn't you get any of my notes?"

"Certainly. I burned the filthy lot of them."

"Come, come now."

"Indeed! You have not even aroused my interest."

Cecil stepped forward, catching my chin with the tip of his leather-clad finger. "That, my dear, is absolutely untrue. And besides, didn't you find my idea about the chocolate sauce and the horsehair whip even mildly tempting?"

I shook my head. "Never," I hissed. "I shall never be tempted by you again."

"Then those sugary nip—"

"Cecil, for goodness' sake!"

"What about the note with the haiku?"

"I suppose it does require a talent to write a couplet featuring Arabia and labia."

Cecil beamed. "You have no idea the labor involved when using 'vans deferens.'"

"In any case, erotic poetry cannot change the events of that night. That horrible night…"

"Horrible because of my face, eh?"

I shook my head and tightened my folded arms. "Horrible because of your SOUL, Cecil. Your SOUL. And your RHYTHM. That was horrible too. And your maudlin BLUES. I hated your BLUES. All in all, you revealed yourself to be a rake and cad. And… and… a villain!"

"How so? I fed you, clothed you, caused you to scream out a plea to some deity to painlessly dislocate your hips so that you could, in your own words, 'grind it like a pepper mill?'"

"Ah!" I was incensed, Angelina. Here he was, the object of my adoration and my abomination, reminding me of my own weakness even as he callously forgot his own.

"Do you not recall screaming at me to leave?"

"Well, yes, but—"

"And that bottle of claret that you hurled at my back as I scurried out?"

"I was just trying to recycle that…"

"What about the trap door you activated as I exited the Lair?"

"Darling, that's an anti-theft measure I've had in place for _years_—"

"So that trained baboon with the sharp teeth and the engorged scarlet genitals keeps away pickpockets?"

"Absolutely!"

"…"

"What?"

"Cecil, you meant to kill me. You certainly cannot tell me that the spring-loaded ax aimed at my head as I ascended to the second cellar was a fluke."

Cecil frowned and his shoulders slumped. "Can't we just admit that you were wrong and move smashingly to the make-up rutting?"

"Get out!"

"Have a care, Catherine! I simply want things to go back to the way they were. Before you saw me."

"If only. But really, Cecil, I must prepare for the performance tonight. Please, do not seek retribution tonight. Let me go out there and shine as your pupil, your star, your former lover, your previous pocket demon handler, and your Angel."

"Angel, eh?"

I tried to affect a very ethereal smile, complete with watery eyes. Cecil sneered and strode towards the mirror. Activating the lever, he stepped into the dark, damp hall.

"Please Cecil… please."

"Oh, I'll have you begging alright. Break a leg, dear Angel. Be careful not to break your neck."

* * *

Bound and trussed into my peasant garb, I picked indelicately at my skirt. Cecil had certainly flustered me, and now M. Reyer wanted nothing more than to frighten me about not entering on the correct measure. Madame Giry gave me a few notes regarding my graphic "awakening" pas de deux with Gaston, while M. Firmin offered to be a stand in for me to practice my hip thrusts. I finally waved them all away as I heard the orchestra begin to sound. 

It was real.

I was about to take the stage as the elegant, charming Belle, to sing and dance and rub with my gallant gentlemen. I felt a great flutter in my heart and my bowels—Papa's dream for me was coming true!

"Catherine, you dropped your book."

I looked up into the warm, friendly eyes of Lissy. "Oh thank you!" I cried, and threw my arms about her. "You have been such a dear friend to me. I'm sure it has been quite a joy for you to be permitted into my sphere of influence."

Lissy nodded. "Yes. Indeed. Must take my place." Off she scampered onto the stage, sitting primly on a bale of hay. As the curtains pulled back, the hot stage lights flooded the space, and the audience cheered with fervor. My heart threatened to beat right out of my chest!

The chorus sounded fair, and did a passable job of holding the audience's interest. I crossed myself and counted "5,6,7!" as I stepped onto the stage.

"Quiet town," I sang loudly and clearly, swaying confidently, knowing that my blue dress matched my blue eyes perfectly! I earned thunderous applause, as well as a standing ovation from my managers, both of whom seemed to be offering me a salute thanks to their pocket demons. How flattered was I!

Of course, I couldn't rest of my triumph for long. It was time for Gaston's entrance. I hadn't seen Patrick backstage before curtain, but I knew that was because he wanted to make our onstage meeting fresh and vaguely indecent. As he strutted into the beaming golden light, I did my best to look concerned and in character. Patrick's voice captured an even richer tone than I'd heard him manage. I smiled a little to myself—he was obviously inspired to be singing with me. Truly, he was a fortunate artist!

As I made my way around the stage to meet my cues, I chanced a look out into the audience. I noticed how the men's gaze followed me, and how the women looked at their men with a bit of anger and jealousy. I realized in that moment that I must guard myself from the violence of such pitiful harpies who lose their husband's attentions in my commanding wake.

It was then that I saw him. In the shadowed entrance way.

Marcus.

ABC.

Oh what could they possibly be planning?

Standing there, dumbstruck, I was unaware of time and space. I forgot my lines, my choreography, my very self. I felt "Gaston" stand behind me and wrap his arms around me, giving a little squeeze.

I may have not known what to sing next, but I knew that wasn't into Giry's plan.

"You knew that I wanted you in my arms, Catherine," spoke the threateningly sensual voice. "And now, my Angel, you are going to sing like you've never, ever even thought about singing before!"

**

* * *

**

_A/N: As phantomy-cookies wisely noted… I seemed to abandon this story right after they knocked boots, in classic bad!phic form. My immense thanks to everyone who read this back when I was a marginally faithful updater, and to anyone who doesn't hold it against me that I gave Buds the Year-Long Shaft. Bless Cookies' heart for her beta-ing. This strange story actually does have an ending, and I mean to make it happen.  
_


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